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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

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SOCIETIES 


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v. 12 


UN,VERSITY  OF  NiC  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


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RET. 


THE  COLLECTED   WORKS  OF 

HENRIK  IBSEN 


VOLUME  XII 

FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 


THE    COLLECTED    WORKS    OF 

HENRI  K    IBSEN 

Copyright  Edition 


VOLUME  XII 

FROM     IBSEN'S     WORKSHOP 

NOTES,  SCENARIOS, 
AND  DRAFTS  OF  THE  MODERN  PLAYS 

TRANSLATED   BY 

A.    G.    CHATER 

WITH    INTRODUCTION    BY 

WILLIAM    ARCHER 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1923 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 


Vagb 
INTRODUCTION 3 

PILLARS    OF    SOCIETY 21 

Translated  by  A.  G.  Chatee 

DOLLjlS-iiOUSE 89 

Translated  by  A.  G.  Chatee 

\/GHOSTS 183 

Translated  by  A.  G.  Chatee 

.  THE    WILD    DUCK 191 

V  Translated  by  A.  G.  Chatee 

ROSMERSHOLM 263 

Translated  by  A.  G.  Chatee 

THE    LADY    FROM    THE    SEA 327 

Translated  by  A.  G.  Chatee 

HEDDA    GABLER 379 

\/       Translated  by  A.  G.  Chatee 

THE    MASTER    BUILDER 459 

Translated  by  A.  G.  Chatee 

LITTLE    EYOLF 469 

Translated  by  A.  G.  Chatee 


/ 


J/HN    GABRIEL    BORKMAN 511 

Translated  by  A.  G.  Chatee 


WHEN    WE    DEAD    AWAKEN ,        517 


Translated  by  A.  G.  Chatee 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2011  with* funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/collectedworksofibse 


FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 


FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

INTRODUCTION 

This  volume  contains  all  the  notes,  sketches,  drafts, 
and  other  "foreworks"  (as  he  used  to  call  them)  for 
Ibsen's  plays  from  Pillars  of  Society  onwards.  They 
were  published  in  Scandinavia  and  Germany  in  1909, 
under  the  editorship  of  those  learned  and  devoted  Ibsen 
scholars,  Halvdan  Koht  and  Julius  Elias.  They  occu- 
pied somewhat  less  than  one-half  of  the  three  volumes 
of  the  poet's  Efterladte  Skrifter,  or  (to  use  the  consecrated 
but  somewhat  unfortunate  English  phrase)  his  Literary 
Remains.  The  other  contents  of  these  three  volumes  are 
of  great  interest  for  special  students  of  Ibsen's  biography; 
but  not  until  the  period  of  his  modern  plays  is  reached  do 
his  drafts  and  jottings  assume  what  may  be  called  world- 
wide importance.  The  papers  here  translated  throw  in- 
valuable light  upon  the  genesis  of  his  ideas  and  the  de- 
velopment of  his  technique.  They  are  an  indispensable 
aid  to  the  study  of  his  intellectual  processes  during  that 
part  of  his  career  which  made  him  world-famous. 

The  first  volume  of  the  Norwegian  edition  is  very 
varied  in  its  contents.  About  half  of  it  is  occupied  by 
early  poems,  including  the  boyish  verses  to  Hungary  and 
to  King  Oscar,  written  about  1848,  which  were  proba- 
bly the  "first  heirs  of  his  invention."  Most  of  the  con- 
tents of  this  section  are  occasional  pieces — prologues, 

3 


4  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

student  songs,  etc. — but  in  some  of  the  lyrics  we  find  the 
germs  of  ideas  to  which  he  afterwards  gave  more  finished 
form.  Then  come  some  miscellaneous  prose  pieces,  rang- 
ing from  one  or  two  of  his  school  themes,  which  have 
somehow  been  preserved,  to  the  singularly  laconic  and 
unrhetorical  speeches  of  his  later  years.1  The  remaining 
pages  are  given  up  to  hitherto  unpublished  plays  and 
dramatic  fragments,  dating  from  the  'fifties  and  early 
'sixties.  The  most  important  of  these  is  the  romantic 
comedy  St.  John's  Night,  produced  in  Bergen,  January 
2,  1853.  This  very  youthful  but  not  uninteresting  play 
was  known  to  exist  in  manuscript,  and  had  been  described 
by  Ibsen's  biographers;  but,  during  his  lifetime,  he  had 
not  suffered  it  to  be  printed.  It  is  a  vivacious  and  really 
imaginative  piece  of  work,  containing  foretastes  both  of 
Love's  Comedy  and  of  Peer  Gynt.  Its  culminating  scene 
is  a  midnight  revel  of  fairy  folk,  which  is  witnessed  by 
two  pairs  of  mortal  lovers.  The  pair  who  are  really  in 
touch  with  nature  and  with  things  elemental,  see  it  as 
it  is,  while  the  conventional  and  affected  romanticists 
take  it  for  a  dance  of  peasants  around  a  bonfire.  We 
have  here  the  germ  of  several  passages  in  the  poet's  ma- 
turer  work.  Another  item  of  interest  in  the  first  volume 
is  a  fragment  entitled  Svanhild,  being  the  first  sketch,  in 
prose,  of  what  afterwards  became  Love's  Comedy.2  Ib- 
sen said  that  he  abandoned  this  form  because  he  had  not 
yet  the  art  of  writing  modern  prose  dialogue.  I  should 
rather  be  disposed  to  say  that  he  had  not  a  theme  adapted 

1  Even  his  entries  in  the  complaint-book  of  the  Scandinavian  Club 
in  Rome  are  piously  included. 

8  See  Professor  Herford's  introduction  to  that  play. 


INTRODUCTION  5 

for  treatment  in  prose.  There  is  practically  no  action 
in  the  play — none  of  that  complex  interweaving  of  the 
past  with  the  present,  and  of  event  with  character,  which 
afterwards  formed  the  substance  of  his  art.  We  have 
only  a  group  of  people  expressing  certain  ideas  on  life  and 
love — ideas  which  naturally  tend  to  shape  themselves  in 
lyric  or  satiric  verse.  The  form,  in  short,  was  indicated 
by  the  lack  of  substance.  The  theme  was  a  very  thin 
one,  which  needed  the  starch  of  metre. 

The  second  volume  of  the  Norwegian  edition  opens 
with  the  so-called  "epic  Brand" — the  fragment  of  a 
narrative  version  of  Brand,  which  is  described  by  Profes- 
sor Herford  in  his  Introduction  to  that  play.1  Then  come 
sundry  chips  from  the  workshop  in  which  Brand  and 
Peer  Gynt  were  wrought  to  perfection.  In  the  Peer  Gynt 
fragments  there  are  one  or  two  points  of  interest,  to  which 
I  have  alluded  in  my  Introduction.2  The  preliminary 
sketches  for  The  League  of  Youth  are  of  small  importance, 
except  in  so  far  as  they  show  that  the  play  grew  and  de- 
veloped very  little  in  the  course  of  incubation.  Far  more 
interesting  are  the  long  scenarios  and  drafts  which  pre- 
ceded the  final  form  of  Emperor  and  Galilean.  A  pretty 
full  account  of  them  may  be  found  in  my  Introduction  to 
the  "world-historic  drama."3  This  brings  us  down  to 
Pillars  of  Society  and  to  the  sketches  and  drafts  included 
in  the  present  volume. 

Whatever  he  may  have  been  in  youth,  Henrik  Ibsen, 
in  maturity  and  age,  was  the  most  reticent  of  artists.  It 
is  said,  I  believe  with  truth,  that  even  his  wife  and  son 
knew  nothing  of  what  he  was  meditating  and  hatching 

»  Vol.  II.,  p.  4.  J  Vol.  IV.,  p.  14.  «  Vol.  V.,  p.  13. 


6  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

out,  until  each  new  play  was  polished  to  the  last  syllable. 
In  the  Introduction  to  An  Enemy  of  the  People  may  be 
found  an  anecdote  of  his  apparently  disproportionate 
anger  when  he  learned  that  some  loose  scrap  of  paper 
had  revealed  the  fact  that  the  hero  of  the  play  on  which 
he  was  then  engaged  was  to  be  a  doctor.  In  his  corre- 
spondence he  never  indicates  or  discusses  the  themes 
which  are  occupying  him,  except  when  he  is  asking  for 
historical  material  to  be  used  in  Emperor  and  Galilean. 
So  far  as  my  own  experience  went,  he  never  said  more  of 
his  work  than  that  he  was  "preparing  some  devilment 
for  next  year."  I  remember,  too,  that,  when  he  was  en- 
gaged on  When  We  Dead  Awaken,  he  told  me  that  he 
thought  of  describing  it  as  "An  Epilogue." 

It  seems  like  an  irony  of  fate  that  this  ultra-secretive 
craftsman,  so  jealous  of  the  privacy  of  his  workroom, 
should,  after  death,  have  all  his  pigeon-holes  ransacked, 
and  even  the  contents  of  his  waste-paper  basket,  one 
might  say,  given  to  the  world.  At  first  sight  this  may 
seem  like  a  profanation;  but  on  looking  into  the  matter 
we  find  no  just  cause  for  sentimental  regret.  If  Ibsen 
had  been  violently  averse  from  any  posthumous  study 
of  his  methods,  he  had  safety  in  his  own  hands — he 
could  always  have  destroyed  his  papers.  He  seems,  on 
the  contrary,  to  have  treasured  them  with  considerable 
care.  The  drafts  and  experiments  for  his  romantic  plays 
(Lady  Inger,  The  Vikings,  and  The  Pretenders)  were 
scattered  in  a  sale  of  his  effects  after  he  left  Norway,  in 
1864,  and  have  not  yet  been  recovered.  He  was  very 
angry  when  he  heard  of  their  dispersal ;  but  he  was  prob- 
ably not  thinking  of  the  loss  to  posterity.     What  he  re- 


INTRODUCTION  7 

sented  at  the  time,  no  doubt,  was  the  thought  that  un- 
known and  irreverent  persons  might  be  prying  into  his 
secrets  while  he  lived.  Was  he,  perhaps,  recalling  this 
experience  when  he  made  Lovborg,  in  Hedda  G abler, 
speak  so  bitterly  of  the  possible  profanation  of  his  lost 
manuscript?  Be  this  as  it  may,  we  find  that  not  even 
the  wandering  life  which  he  led  for  so  many  years  inter- 
fered with  his  habit  of  treasuring  up  the  chips  from  his 
workshop.  It  will  be  seen  that  this  volume  contains 
"  foreworks  "  of  more  or  less  importance  for  all  his  plays 
from  Pillars  of  Society  onwards,  with  the  single  exception 
of  An  Enemy  of  the  People.  We  do  not  know  what  has 
become  of  the  sketches  and  studies  for  this  play.  He 
produced  it  in  half  the  time  that  he  usually  gave  to  the 
ripening  of  a  dramatic  creation,  and  seems,  indeed,  to 
have  thrown  it  off  with  unusual  facility  and  gusto.  Still, 
it  is  difficult  to  suppose  that  he  dispensed  altogether  with 
preliminary  notes  and  jottings.  We  must  rather  conclude 
that  they  have  been  accidentally  lost  or  destroyed. 

As  he  carefully  preserved  his  papers,  and  as  he  left  his 
executors  a  free  hand  to  deal  with  them  as  they  thought 
fit,  they  would  have  done  the  world  a  great  wrong  had 
they  decided  to  suppress  documents  of  such  unique  in- 
terest. Nowhere  else,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  do  we  obtain 
so  clear  a  view  of  the  processes  of  a  great  dramatist's 
mind.  There  is  something  of  the  same  interest,  no 
doubt,  in  a  comparison  of  the  early  quartos  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet  and  Hamlet  with  the  completed  plays;  but 
in  these  cases  we  cannot  decide  with  any  certainty  how 
far  the  incompleteness  of  the  earlier  versions  represents 
an  actual  phase  in  the  growth  of  the  plays,  and  how  far 


8  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

it  is  due  to  the  bad  stenography  of  the  playhouse  pirates. 
In  Ibsen's  manuscripts  we  can  actually  follow  the  growth 
of  an  idea  in  his  mind;  distinguish  what  is  original  and 
fundamental  in  his  conception  from  accretions  and  after- 
thoughts; see  him  straying  into  blind  alleys  and  trying 
back  again;  and  estimate  the  faultless  certainty  of  taste 
with  which  he  strengthened  weak  points  in  his  fabric, 
and  rejected  the  commonplace  in  favour  of  the  rare  and 
unforgettable.  Not  once,  I  think,  is  a  scene  or  a  trait 
suppressed  which  ought  to  have  been  preserved;  not 
once  is  a  speech  altered  for  the  worse.  Sometimes,  in- 
deed, we  find  him  using  absolutely  commonplace  ideas 
and  phrases  which  he  must  have  known  to  be  tempo- 
rary makeshifts,  awaiting  transfiguration  at  a  later  stage. 
How  much  he  relied  upon  the  final  revision  of  his  work 
is  apparent  from  a  curious  expression  of  which  he  makes 
use  in  a  letter  to  Theodor  Caspari,  dated  Rome,  2?th 
June,  1884.  "I  have  just  completed  a  play  in  five 
acts,"  he  says ;  and  then  adds:  " that  is  to  say,  the  rough 
draft  of  it;  now  comes  the  elaboration,  the  more  ener- 
getic individualisation  of  the  persons  and  their  modes 
of  expression."  The  play  in  question  was  The  Wild 
Duck.  Any  one  who  compares  the  draft  in  the  follow- 
ing pages  with  the  finished  play  will  see  that  what  Ibsen 
called  "elaboration"  amounted,  at  some  points,  almost 
to  reinvention. 

In  the  Introductions  to  the  various  plays,  in  the  Sub- 
scription edition,  I  have  pretty  fully  compared  the  earlier 
with  the  final  forms.  As  the  reader  has  now  before  him 
the  complete  text  of  the  sketches  and  drafts,  and  can  make 
the  comparison  for  himself,  it  will  be  sufficient  if  I  briefly 


INTRODUCTION  9 

direct  his  attention  to  some  of  the  most  significant  fea- 
tures of  these  "foreworks." 


PILLARS  OP  SOCIETY 

Of  this  play  we  have  three  brief  and  fragmentary  sce- 
narios, two  almost  complete  drafts  of  the  first  act,  an  al- 
most entirely  rejected  draft  of  the  beginning  of  the  second 
act,  and  large  fragments  of  a  draft  of  the  fourth  act. 

Here  we  at  once  discover  that  Ibsen  was  not  one  of  the 
playwrights  who  have  their  plays  clearly  mapped  out  be- 
fore they  put  pen  to  paper.     Even  in  the  second  draft  of 
the  first  act,  he  is  still  fumbling  around  after  his  char- 
acters and  their  relations.     That  the  actual  plot  was  still 
obscure  to  him  while  he  was  writing  the  first  draft  ap- 
pears from  several  indications.     It  is  only  in  the  second 
draft  that  the  reappearance  of  Johan  and  Lona  causes 
Bernick  to  display  any  uneasiness.     Moreover  we  find 
in  the  first  draft  that  "  Madam  Dorf ,"  Dina's  mother,  is 
still  alive,  and  that  Dina  is  in  the  habit  of  paying  her 
surreptitious  visits;    whence   we   may  assume  that  the 
light  to  be  thrown  on  Bernick's  past  was  in  some  way 
intended  to  proceed  from  her.     While  she  was  alive,  at 
any  rate,   Bernick  would   scarcely  try  to  suppress  the 
scandal  by  sending  Johan  and  his  documents  to  sea  in  a 
coffin-ship.     This  could  not  occur  to  him  while  the  best 
witness  to  the  true  state  of  affairs  was  living  at  his  very 
doors.     Thus  we  see  that  the  actual  intrigue  of  the  play 
was  a  rather  late  after-thought. 

A  prominent  character  in  both  drafts  of  the  first  act  is 
Bernick's  blind  mother,  who  has  disappeared  from  the 


10  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

finished  play.  Mads  Tonnesen,  nicknamed  "the  Bad- 
ger," the  father  of  Mrs.  Bernick,  Johan  and  Hilmar, 
was  destined  to  drop  out  of  this  play,  and  to  reappear, 
under  the  name  of  Morten  Kiil,  in  An  Enemy  of  the 
People.  The  business  of  the  railway  is  taken  up  at  a 
much  later  stage  in  the  completed  play  than  in  the  drafts 
— a  good  instance  of  the  condensation  to  which  Ibsen 
invariably  subjected  his  work.  Another  instance  may  be 
found  in  the  treatment  of  Johan  Tonnesen  and  Lona 
Hessel.  In  the  first  draft  they  are  not  half  brother  and 
sister,  but  only,  it  would  seem,  distant  cousins;  they 
have  not  been  together  in  America;  and  it  is  by  pure 
chance  that  they  arrive  on  the  same  day.  The  farcical 
scene  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  in  this  draft  may  perhaps 
be  taken  as  showing  that  Ibsen-at  first  thought  of  giving 
the  whole  play  a  lighter  tone  of  colouring  than  that  which 
he  ultimately  adopted.  Perhaps  he  conceived  it  rather 
as  a  companion-piece  to  The  League  of  Youth  than  as  a 
new  departure  on  the  path  that  was  to  lead  him  so  far. 

A  DOLL'S  HOUSE 

Of  A  DolVs  House  we  possess  a  first  brief  memoran- 
dum, a  fairly  detailed  scenario,  a  complete  draft,  in  quite 
actable  /orm,  and  a  few  detached  fragments  of  dialogue. 
The  complete  draft  is  perhaps  the  most  valuable  of  all 
the  documents  contained  in  this  volume,  since  it  shows 
us  how,  at  a  point  at  which  many  dramatists  would  have 
been  more  than  content  to  write  "  Finis,"  the  most  char- 
acteristic part  of  Ibsen's  work  was  only  about  to  begin. 

It  is  scarcely  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  all  the  traits 


INTRODUCTION  11 

which  have  most  deeply  impressed  themselves  on  the 
public  mind,  and  which  constitute  the  true  individual- 
ity of  the  play,  prove  to  have  been  introduced  during 
the  process  of  revision.  This  assertion  the  reader  must 
verify  for  himself,  by  a  comparison  of  the  texts :  I  will 
merely  enumerate  a  few  of  the  traits  of  which  the  draft 
contains  no  indication.  In  the  first  act,  the  business  of 
the  macaroons  is  not  even  suggested;  there  is  none  of 
the  charming  talk  about  the  Christmas  tree  and  the  chil- 
dren's presents;  no  request  on  Nora's  part  that  her 
present  may  take  the  form  of  money,  no  indication  on 
Helmer's  part  that  he  regards  her  supposed  extrava- 
gance as  an  inheritance  from  her  father.  It  is  notable 
throughout  that  neither  Helmer's  sestheticism  nor  the 
sensual  element  in  his  relation  to  Nora  is  nearly  so  much 
emphasised  as  in  the  completed  play;  while  Nora's 
tendency  to  small  fibbing — that  vice  of  the  unfree — 
scarcely  appears  at  all.  In  the  first  scene  with  Dr.  Rank, 
there  is  no  indication  either  of  the  doctor's  ill  health  or 
of  his  pessimism:  it  seems  as  though  he  had  at  first  been 
designed  as  a  mere  confidant.  In  the  draft,  Nora,  Hel- 
mer,  and  Rank  discuss  the  case  of  Krogstad  in  a  dis- 
passionate way  before  Nora  has  learnt  how  vital  it  is 
to  her.  An  enormous  improvement  was  effected  by  the 
suppression  of  this  untimely  passage,  which  discounted 
the  effect  of  the  scene  at  the  end  of  the  act.  That  scene 
is  not  materially  altered  in  the  final  version;  but  the 
first  version  contains  no  hint  of  the  business  of  decorat- 
ing the  Christmas  tree,  or  of  Nora's  wheedling  Helmer 
by  pretending  to  need  his  aid  in  devising  her  costume 
tor  the  fancy-dress  ball,     indeed   this  ball   has  not  yet 


12  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

entered  Ibsen's  mind.  He  thinks  of  it  first  as  a  chil- 
dren's party. 

In  the  second  act  there  is  no  scene  with  Mrs.  Linden 
in  which  she  remonstrates  with  Nora  for  having  (as  she 
thinks)  borrowed  money  from  Dr.  Rank,  and  so  sug- 
gests to  her  the  idea  of  applying  to  him  for  aid.  In  the 
scene  with  Helmer,  we  miss,  among  other  characteristic 
traits,  his  confession  that  the  ultimate  reason  why  he 
cannot  keep  Krogstad  in  the  bank  is  that  Krogstad,  as 
an  old  schoolfellow,  is  so  tactless  as  to  tutoyer  him. 
When  Rank  enters,  he  speaks  to  Helmer  and  Nora  to- 
gether of  his  failing  health:  it  is  an  immeasurable  im- 
provement which  transfers  this  passage,  in  a  carefully 
polished  form,  to  his  scene  with  Nora  alone.  Of  the  fa- 
mous silk-stocking  scene — that  durious  side  light  on  Nora's 
relations  with  Helmer — there  is  not  a  trace.  There  is 
no  hint  of  Nora's  appeal  to  Rank  for  help,  nipped  in  the 
bud  by  his  declaration  of  love  for  her.  All  these  ele- 
ments we  find  in  the  second  draft  of  the  scene.  In  this 
draft,  Rank  says,  "  Helmer  himself  might  quite  well  know 
every  thought  I  have  ever  had  of  you ;  he  shall  know  them 
when  I  am  gone."  If  Ibsen  had  retained  this  speech  it 
might  have  saved  much  critical  misunderstanding  of  a 
perfectly  harmless  episode.  Even  when  the  end  of  the 
second  act  is  reached,  Ibsen  has  not  yet  conceived  the 
idea  of  the  fancy-ball  and  the  rehearsal  of  the  tarantella. 
It  is  not  a  very  admirable  invention,  but  it  is  at  any  rate 
better  than  the  strained  and  arbitrary  incident  which,  in 
the  draft,  brings  the  act  to  a  close. 

Very  noteworthy  is  the  compression  and  simplification 
to  which  Ibsen  has  subjected  the  earlier  scenes  of  the 


INTRODUCTION  13 

third  act.  In  the  draft,  they  are  clumsy  and  straggling. 
The  scene  between  Helmer,  Nora  and  Rank  has  abso- 
lutely none  of  the  subtlety  and  tragic  intensity  which 
it  has  acquired  in  the  finished  form.  To  compare  the 
two  versions  is  to  see  a  perfect  instance  of  the  transmuta- 
tion of  dramatic  prose  into  dramatic  poetry.  There  is  in 
the  draft  no  indication  either  of  Helmer's  being  warmed 
with  wine,  or  of  the  excitement  of  the  senses  which  gives 
the  fina}  touch  of  tragedy  to  Nora's  despair.  The  pro- 
cess of  the  action  in  the  final  scene  is  practically  the 
same  in  both  versions;  but  everywhere  the  revision  has 
given  a  sharper  edge  to  things.  In  the  draft,  for  instance, 
when  Krogstad's  letter  has  lifted  the  weight  of  appre- 
hension from  Helmer's  mind,  he  cries,  "You  are  saved, 
TWa,  you  are  saved!"  In  the  revised  form,  Ibsen  has 
cruelly  altered  this  into  "I  am  saved,  Nora,  I  am  saved!" 
Finally,  we  have  to  note  that  Nora's  immortal  repartee, 
"  Millions  of  women  have  done  so,"  was  an  after-thought. 
Was  there  ever  a  more  brilliant  one  ? 

GHOSTS 

Of  the  studies  for  Ghosts  only  a  few  brief  fragments 
have  been  preserved.  The  most  important  of  these  are 
mere  casual  memoranda,  some  of  them  written  on  the 
back  of  an  envelope  addressed  to  "  Madame  Ibsen,  75 
via  Capo  le  Case,  Citta  (that  is  to  say,  Rome).  These 
memoranda  fall  into  six  sections,  of  which  the  fourth  and 
fifth  seem  to  have  as  much  bearing  on  other  plays — for 
instance,  on  An  Enemy  of  the  People  and  The  Lady  from 
the  Sea — as  on  Ghosts.     I  should  take  them  rather  for 


14  FROM    IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

detached  jottings  than  for  notes  specially  referring  to  thai 
play. 

THE  WILD  DUCK 

The  drafts  of  The  Wild  Duck,  though  rather  fragmen- 
tary, are  very  interesting  and  important.  They  show  that 
the  general  outline  of  the  play  was  pretty  well  established 
from  an  early  stage;  but  they  also  show  it  to  have  been 
enormously  enriched  in  detail  in  the  final  revision.  This 
is  particularly  notable  in  the  character  of  Hedvig.  In 
the  drafts,  she  is  a  quite  commonplace  girl  ;  all  the  deli- 
cacy and  beauty  of  the  character,  which  make  her  fate  so 
heart-rending,  was  added  during  that  process  of  "energetic 
individualisation"  to  which  the  poet  refers  in  his  letter  to 
Caspari.  It  is  worth  noting,  too,  that  in  all  these  drafts 
there  is  no  allusion  either  to  old  Werle's  weak  eyes  or  to 
Hedvig's  threatened  blindness:  that  idea,  which  at  once 
helped  out  the  plot  of  the  play,  added  to  the  pathos  of 
Hedvig's  figure,  and  illustrated  Hialmar's  selfishness  in 
allowing  her  to  strain  her  eyes  over  the  retouching  which 
he  himself  ought  to  have  done,  was  entirely  an  after- 
thought. An  idea  which  presents  itself  in  a  rudimentary 
form  in  the  first  draft  is  that  of  Hialmar  Ekdal's  "  inven- 
tion"— here  called  his  "problem."  The  later  develop- 
ment of  this  wonderful  "invention"  forms  a  very  good 
specimen  of  Ibsen's  method.  Everywhere,  on  a  close 
comparison  of  the  texts,  we  see  an  intensive  imagination 
lighting  up,  as  it  were,  what  was  at  first  somewhat  cold 
and  colourless.  In  this  case,  as  in  many  others,  the  draft 
suggests  a  transparency  before  the  electricity  has  been 
switched  on. 


INTRODUCTION 


ROSMERSHOLM 


We  can  trace  this  play  to  its  completion  from  a  very 
embryonic  form.  It  is  clear  that,  when  the  poet  jotted 
down  the  earliest  memorandum,  he  had  as  yet  no  idea  of 
the  tragedy  of  Rebecca's  relation  to  Beata;  for  he  could 
scarcely  have  described  as  "somewhat  unscrupulous"  a 
woman  who,  under  the  mask  of  friendship,  goaded  an- 
other to  suicide.  Rosmer,  we  see,  was  to  have  had  two 
daughters;  but  they  soon  disappeared  from  this  play,  to 
reappear  as  Boletta  and  Hilda  Wangel  in  The  Lady  from 
the  Sea. 

The  drafts  of  Rosmersholm  afford  a  good  example  of 
the  way  in  which  Ibsen  almost  always  fumbled  around 
for  the  names  of  his  characters.  It  is  fortunate  that 
Rebecca  did  not  eventually  retain  the  name  of  "  Miss 
Badeck,"  which  would  have  lent  itself,  in  English,  to 
somewhat  too  facile  pleasantries  of  the  type  in  vogue 
among  "  Anti-Ibsenite"  critics  of  the  'nineties.  At  one 
stage  in  the  incubation  of  the  play,  we  find  Rebecca 
figuring  as  "Mrs.  Rosmer";  but  she  very  soon,  so  to 
speak,  comes  unmarried  again.  The  student  of  tech- 
nique may  learn  a  valuable  lesson  in  noting  the  improve- 
ment effected  in  the  finished  play  by  the  transference  of 
Rosmer's  confession  of  his  change  of  faith  from  the  second 
act  to  the  first.  Another  point  worth  noting  is  the  fact 
that  in  the  first  draft  of  the  first  Brendel  scene  we  find 
Brendel  coming  forward  as  a  champion  of  land-nation- 
alisation, and  greatly  disappointed  on  learning  that  he 
has  been  anticipated  in  a  well-known  book — an   allu- 


16  FROM  IESEX'S   WORKSHOP 

sion,  no  doubt,  to  Henry  George's  Progress  and  Poverty. 
Ibsen  showed  bis  usual  fine  instinct  in  abandoning 
this  idea. 

THE  LADY  FROM  THE  SEA 

The  sketches  and  drafts  of  The  Lady  from  tlie  Sea 
show  that  the  theme  was  a  good  deal  modified  in  the 
course  of  incubation.  Wangel,  as  at  first  conceived, 
was  entirely  different,  both  in  character  and  in  profes- 
sion, from  the  Wangel  of  the  finished  play.  Several  char- 
acters appear  in  the  original  jottings  who  have  disap- 
peared from  the  play  as  we  know  it:  among  them  one 
who  was  treasured  up  for  seventeen  years,  to  come  to 
life  ultimately  as  the  delightful  Foldal  of  John  Gabriel 
Borkman.  The  story  of  Ellida  was  much  more  com- 
monplace in  its  original  conception  than  it  eventually 
became — it  "suffered  a  sea  change  Into  something  rich 
and  strange."  But  the  most  remarkable  fact  which  the 
"foreworks"  bring  to  light  is  that  Arnholm  and  the 
Stranger  were  formed  by  the  scission,  so  to  speak,  of 
one  character,  denominated  the  "Strange  Passenger" — 
possibly  not  without  a  certain  reference  to  the  person- 
age of  that  name  in  Peer  Gynt. 

HEDDA  GABLER 

Almost  the  first  germs  of  Hedda  Gaoler  seem  to  have 
come  to  the  poet  in  the  form  of  scraps  of  dialogue,  roughly 
jotted  down.  In  his  original  conception,  Tesman  was 
to  have  been  much  more  of  an  active  intermediary  be- 
tween Hedda  and  Lovborg  than  he  became  in  the  end. 
It  was  Tesman    who,   at  her  instigation,   was  to  lure 


INTRODUCTION  17 

Lovborg  to  Brack's  orgy;  and  it  was  apparently  Tes- 
man  who  was  actually  to  make  away  with,  or  misappro- 
priate, Lovborg's  manuscript.  Both  Tesman  and  Mrs. 
Elvsted  were  to  have  known  much  more  of  the  former 
"comradeship"  between  Lovborg  and  Hedda  than  they 
do  in  the  play.  There  is  no  hint  of  any  "  Mademoiselle 
Diana"  in  the  draft:  when  Hedda,  asks  Mrs.  Elvsted 
who  the  woman  is  whom  Lovborg  cannot  forget,  she  re- 
plies point-blank,  "It  is  yourself,  Hedda."  Mrs.  Elv- 
sted's  luxuriant  hair  and  Hedda's  jealousy  of  it  are  after- 
thoughts; so  is  the  famous  conception  of  Lovborg  "with 
vine-leaves  in  his  hair."  In  the  stage-direction  for  the 
burning  of  Lovborg's  manuscript,  the  allusion  to  the 
"white  leaves"  and  "blue  leaves"  evidently  belongs  to 
some  phase  in  the  working-out  of  the  play  of  which  no 
other  trace  remains.  It  is  interesting  to  speculate  on 
what  may  have  been  in  the  poet's  mind;  but  I  am  not 
aware  that  any  satisfactory  solution  of  the  problem  has 
as  yet  been  offered. 

THE  MASTER  BUILDER 

The  preliminary  studies  for  this  play  are  scanty  and  of 
slight  interest.  They  nowhere  indicate  any  considerable 
change  of  plan.  Perhaps  the  most  noteworthy  trait  in 
them  occurs  where  Solness  is  giving  Hilda  an  account  of 
his  progress  in  his  profession.  His  work  is  in  demand, 
he  says,  far  and  wide;  "and  now,  of  late  years,  they  are 
beginning  to  take  an  interest  in  me  abroad."  Probably 
this  touch  was  struck  out  because  it  showed  too  clearly 
the  identity  of  Solness  and  his  creator. 


18  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 


LITTLE  EYOLF 

In  spite  of  several  gaps,  the  draft  of  Little  Eyolf  may  be 
called  fairly  complete.  Here  again  revision  amounted 
almost  to  reinvention;  and  it  was  the  reinvention  that 
determined  the  poetic  value  of  the  play.  The  poet's 
original  idea  (though  he  doubtless  knew  very  well  that 
this  would  not  be  final)  was  simply  to  study  a  rather 
commonplace  wife's  jealousy  of  a  rather  commonplace 
child.  The  lameness  of  Eyolf  proves  to  have  been  an 
after-thought;  and  as  Eyolf  is  not  lame,  it  follows  that 
the  terrible  cry  of  "The  crutch  is  floating"  was  also  an 
after-thought,  as  well  as  the  almost  intolerable  scene  of 
recrimination  between  Allmefs  and  Rita  as  to  the  acci- 
dent which  caused  his  lameness.  We  find,  in  fact,  that 
nearly  everything  that  gives  the  play  its  depth,  its  horror 
and  its  elevation  came  as  an  after-thought.  The  sugges- 
tion of  the  "evil  eye"  motive  is  of  the  very  slightest. 
Instead  of  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  final  scene  in  its 
ultimate  form,  we  have  a  page  of  almost  conventional 
sentimentalising  over  Eyolf's  continued  existence  in  the 
hearts  of  his  parents.  Instead  of  telling  her  the  won- 
derful tale  of  his  meeting  with  Death  in  the  mountains, 
Alfred  reads  to  Rita  the  poem  of  which  Ibsen  had  writ- 
ten as  a  first  hint  for  The  Master  Builder.  In  no  case, 
perhaps,  did  revision  work  such  a  transfiguration  as  in 
Little  Eyolf. 


INTRODUCTION  19 


JOHN  GABRIEL  BORKMAN 

Only  brief  and  unimportant  fragments  of  the  prelim- 
inary studies  for  this  play  have  been  preserved.  They 
tell  us  nothing  more  noteworthy  than  that  Borkman  at 
first  bore  the  incurably  prosaic  name  of  Jens,  and  that 
he  was  originally  conceived  as  occupying  his  leisure  by 
playing  Beethoven  on  the  violin,  to  a  pianoforte  accom- 
paniment provided  by  Frida  Foldal. 

WHEN   WE  DEAD  AWAKEN 

In  the  preliminary  studies  for  When  We  Dead  Awaken 
there  are  several  curious  features,  but  nothing  of  very 
great  significance.  We  look  in  vain  for  the  note  re- 
ferred to  in  the  following  anecdote,  related  in  the  Chris- 
tiania  Aftenpost,  for  April  16,  1911,  by  the  dramatist 
Gunnar  Heiberg.  The  Norwegian  actress  who  played 
Irene  in  the  original  production  gave  her  a  rather  juvenile 
appearance, — with  Ibsen's  approval,  it  was  reported. 
"Tell  me,  Dr.  Ibsen,"  Heiberg  said  to  him  one  day, 
"how  old  is  Irene?"  He  replied,  "Irene  is  28  years 
old." 

"That  is  impossible,"  said  I. 

He  looked  at  me,  measured  me  up  and  down,  and  said  with 
crushing  quietness,  "You  naturally  know  better,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  I  answered.  And  I  set  to  work  to  prove  that 
Irene  must  be  at  least  40  years  old.   .  .  . 

"Irene  is  supposed  to  be  28,"  Ibsen  interrupted  me.  "And 
why  do  you  ask,  since  you  know  all  about  it  ? " 


20  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

He  went  away  annoyed. 

Next  day,  I  received  a  letter  from  him,  which  ran  thus: 
"Dear  Gunnar  Heiberg,  You  were  right  and  I  was  wrong. 
I  have  looked  up  my  notes.     Irene  is  about  40  years  old. 

"Yours, 

Henrik  Ibsen." 

The  note  determining  Irene's  age  does  not  seem  to 
have  been  preserved;  but  it  ought  to  have  been  sufficien* 
to  refer  to  the  text. 

William  Archer. 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY 


ARGUMENT 

First  Act 

An  open  garden-room  in  the  house  of  "the  great 
leader  of  industry."  The  ladies  of  the  place  are  mei 
together,  doing  needlework  for  the  benefit  of  the  "  Lapsed 
and  Lost."  The  schoolmaster  has  been  reading  an  edi- 
fying book  to  the  ladies.  In  the  background  the  manu- 
facturer talking  business  to  influential  men  belonging  to 
the  town  and  neighbourhood.  Violent  scene  with  Val- 
borg,  who  finds  it  unbearable  here  and  wishes  to  go 
home  to  her  mother.  The  merchant  enters  in  triumph, 
because  it  appears  that  the  projected  new  railway  can 
be  carried  through.  The  dialogue  brings  out  informa- 
tion about  all  kinds  of  antecedent  circumstances.  "  The 
Old  Badger"  comes  in  with  news  of  the  damaged  ship. 
Who  is  the  captain  ?  Arrival  of  the  steamer.  The  cap- 
tain enters  and  is  recognised.  Olaf  comes  from  school; 
announces  that  Aunt  Lona  is  on  the  steamer.  General 
surprise  and  mixed  feelings.  She  shows  herself  at  th 
garden  gate  just  as  the  curtain  falls. 

Second  Act 

The  new  arrivals  upset  things  considerably  in  the 
town.  Rumours  of  the  captain's  great  wealth  and  of 
the  former  scandal  with  Valborg's  mother.  The  school- 
master begins  to  think  of  becoming  engaged  to  Valborg. 
Beginning  of  conflict  between  the  manufacturer  and  the 
captain. 


24  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 


Third  Act 

We  hear  of  irregularities  in  the  repairing  of  the  ship. 
The  engagement  is  announced  and  celebrated.  The  cap- 
tain decides  to  leave  the  country.  Fresh  reports  from 
the  yard.  The  manufacturer  undecided;  it  is  to  be  kept 
quiet  for  the  time  being. 

Fourth  Act 

Secret  understanding  between  the  captain  and  Val- 
borg.  The  railway  scheme  assured.  Great  ovations. 
Flight  of  Olaf  with  the  departing  couple.  Thrilling 
final  catastrophe. 

PERSONS 

Bennick,  a  merchant,  owner  of  forests  and  factories. 

Mrs.  Bennick,  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Colonel  Bennick,  his  mother. 

Margrete,  her  daughter. 

Mads  Tonnesen,  a  ship-owner  and  builder. 

Emil  (Hilmar)  Tonnesen,  his  son. 

Rorstad,  a  schoolmaster. 

Madam  Dorf,  a  former  actress. 

Dina,  her  daughter. 

Miss  Hassel. 

Captain  John  Tennyson. 

Evensen,  a  private  tutor. 


First  Act 


Introductory  scene.  Hints  of  Bernick's  numerous 
plans.  The  former  worldly  life  of  the  town.  Lona 
Hassel's   departure.     The   ladies  go  out    into  the  ver- 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  25 

andah  to  take  coffee.  Exchange  of  words  between  the 
schoolmaster  and  Dina,  who  on  the  previous  evening  has 
secretly  visited  her  mother.  Hilmar  Tonnesen  enters. 
Mr.  Bernick  and  old  Tonnesen  come  in  from  the  left  to- 
gether with  some  of  the  best  men  of  the  town,  all  involun- 
tarily struck  by  Bernick's  plan  of  setting  on  foot  a  rail- 
way project.  Great  scene  of  conflict  between  different 
points  of  view.  Bernick  propounds  his  superior  view 
and  the  duties  of  the  individual  to  society.  Arrival  of 
the  steamer.  Olaf  enters  with  Miss  Hassel,  who  brings 
the  news  that  Captain  John  Tennyson  is  (was)  on  board. 

Second  Act 

A  part  of  the  garden  of  Bernick's  house,  with  the 
street  and  a  row  of  houses  at  the  back.  Dina  in  the 
garden;  Hilda  and  Netta  come  along  the  street;  they 
question  her  about  the  American;  fantastic  rumours  in 
circulation.  Bernick  and  Knap  enter  in  front  from  the 
left;  the  master-carpenter  is  to  be  sent  for;  Knap  goes 
out  through  the  garden  gate.  Sandstad  passes;  dia- 
logue with  B.  Rumours  of  the  purchase  by  an  English 
company  of  all  the  large  properties  in  the  surrounding 
district.  Sandstad  off.  Old  Tonnesen  enters  with  both 
his  sons.  These  three  go  up  the  garden  steps  to  the 
ladies.  Bernick  and  Aune,  the  master-carpenter.  Aune 
off.  The  Tonnesens  re-enter  with  all  the  ladies  and  the 
schoolmaster,  also  Miss  Hessel.  The  schoolmaster  pro- 
poses to  Dina; 

NOTES 

Mrs.  R.  and  Mrs.  H.  are  at  first  thinking  of  the  school- 
master for  their  daughters;  after  his  engagement  they 
turn  their  attention  to  the  American. 


26  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY 

1st  Act 

Introductory  scene:  The  Ladies'  Union  assembled  in 
the  merchant's  house;  the  schoolmaster  present. 

Hilmar  Tonnesen  enters;  Dina  sent  for  the  coffee- 
things;   the  ladies  one  by  one  go  out  on  to  the  balcony. 

Old  Tonnesen  enters;  he  and  Hilmar  go  out. 

Bernick  and  business  men  enter;  the  business  men  off. 


1st  Act 
(Room  in  Bernick's  House.) 

The  situation  with  regard  to  Aune  is  prepared.  Meet- 
ing of  the  ladies.  Dina  and  the  schoolmaster.  Hilmar, 
and  later  old  Tonnesen.  The  merchant  and  the  mag- 
nates of  the  town;  the  railway  affair;  Bernick's  explana- 
tion of  proposals.  Return  home  of  the  American  cap- 
tain and  Miss  Hessel,  etc. 

2nd  Act 
(Bernick's  garden.) 

Bernick  and  his  wife  in  the  garden.  Afterwards  the 
ladies.  Aune  has  been  degraded.  Rumours  of  the  great 
purchases  of  property  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  school- 
master enters.  Old  Tonnesen  and  both  his  sons.  Lona 
Hessel.  Johan  and  his  million.  Conflict.  The  school- 
master proposes  to  Dina. 

3rd  Act 

(The  walk  by  the  shore.) 

Johan,  Olaf  and  the  girls,  also  Martha.  Johan  and 
Marta;    explanation   between   them.     Johan   and   Ber- 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  27 

nick;  the  old  affairs  are  touched  upon.  The  head  of 
the  office  confides  to  Bernick  what  he  has  noticed  at  the 
ship-yard ;  Bernick  wishes  to  see  for  himself.  The  great 
rustic  festival  is  decided  upon;  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
the  railway. 

4th  Act 
(In  the  park.) 

The  great  rustic  festival  is  held.  Many  people  from 
the  town  and  neighbourhood.  Bernick  about  to  report 
Aune  to  the  police.  Johan  threatens  to  disclose  the  af- 
fairs of  his  young  days. 


FIRST  ACT 


(An  elegant  and  spacious  garden-room  in  Bernick's  house. 
In  front,  to  the  left,  a  door  leads  into  Bernick's  office; 
farther  back,  in  the  same  wall,  a  similar  door.  In  the 
middle  of  the  opposite  wall  is  a  large  entrance  door. 
The  back  ivall  is  almost  entirely  composed  of  plate- 
glass,  with  an  open  doorway  leading  to  a  broad  flight 
of  steps,  over  which  a  sun-shade  is  let  down.  Beyond 
the  steps  a  part  of  the  garden  can  be  seen,  enclosed  by 
a  railing  with  a  little  gate.  Beyond  the  railing,  and 
running  parallel  with  it,  is  a  street  of  small,  brightly 
painted  wooden  hoiises.  It  is  summer,  and  the  sun 
shines  warmly.  Now  and  then  people  pass  along 
the  street:  they  stop  and  speak  to  each  other:  custom- 
ers come  and  go  at  the  little  shop  nearly  opposite,  and 
so  forth.) 


28  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

(In  the  garden-room  a  number  of  ladies  are  gathered  round 
a  long  table.  In  an  armchair  at  tlie  end  of  the  table 
on  the  left,  Mrs.  Bernick,  widow  of  the  Amtmand,1 
a  handsome  old  lady  with  white  hanging  curh  and 
green  glasses,  busy  with  knitting.  Next  to  her  sits 
her  daughter,  Martha  Bernick;  then  Mrs.  Rum- 
mel,  the  younger  Mrs.  Bernick,  Mrs.  Salvesen, 
Mrs.  Holt,  besides  Miss  Netta  Holt  and  Miss 
Hilda  Rummel.  Dina  Dorf,  for  whom  tJiere  is  no 
room  at  the  table,  sits  on  a  low  stool  behind  the  elder 
Mrs.  Bernick.  All  the  ladies  are  busy  sewing.  On 
the  table  lie  large  heaps  of  half-finished  and  cut-out 
linen,  and  otJier  articles  of  clothing.  Farther  towards 
the  back,  at  a  little  table  on  which  are  two  Jlower-pots 
and  a  glass  of  eau  sucree,  sits  Doctor  Rorlund  with 
a  handsomely  bound  book  with  gilt  edges,  from  which 
he  has  just  been  reading.) 

Dr.  Rorlund.     Well,  ladies,  with  this  chapter  I  think 
we  may  conclude  for  to-day. 

(He  places  a  marker  in  the  book  and  closes  it  with  a 
bang.) 

Mrs.  Rummel.     Oh,  how  delightful  it  is  with  books 
like  that,  that  one  doesn't  quite  understand 

Dr.  Rorlund.     I  beg  your  pardon  ? 

Mrs.  Rummel.     Well,  I  mean — that  one  doesn't  see 
the  meaning  of  at  once 

Mrs.  Salvesen.    — and  that  one  has  to  think  over 

Mrs.  Holt.     — and    that   one   has   to   read   several 
times. 

Mrs.    Bernick    Junior    (with    a  fixed   look).     Yes 
[H'm];  such  a  book  gives  us  indeed  much  to  think  about. 

Dr.  Rorlund  (moving  his  chair  nearer  to  tJie  ladies), 
1 A  superior  magistrate. 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  29 

It  is,  one  may  say,  a  book  for  all.  It  is  neither  wholly 
poetry  nor  wholly  philosophy;  nor  yet  is  it  altogether  a 
book  of  devotion.  It  is  in  a  way  something  of  all  these. 
[It  touches  upon  the  most  various  spheres  of  existence.] 
And  the  whole  is  inspired  by  a  gentle  religious  spirit.  I 
consider  that  such  books  ought  to  be  found  in  the  palace 
as  in  the  cottage,  and  in  the  cottage  as  in  the  palace. 
And  they  are  found  there,  too.  Heaven  be  praised — 
our  people  are  still  steadfast  enough  for  that. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  I'm  sure  it  would  have  lain 
a  long  while  on  our  shelves,  if  you  had  not 

Dr.  Rorlund.  Your  husband  does  not  read  much,  I 
believe  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Oh,  how  should  he  find 
time  for  it? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  You  can't  say  that  Karsten 
doesn't  read  much,  Betty 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  He  doesn't  read  that  kind  of 
book,  I  meant. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  My  son  reads  enormously, 
Dr.  Rorlund.  But  mostly  works  on  political  economy 
and  other  things  that  may  be  useful  to  him. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Yes,  and  that  doesn't  do  us 
any  good.  So  it's  really  more  than  kind  of  you  to  give 
up  your  spare  time  to  us. 

Dr.  Rorlund.  But  could  I  better  apply  a  leisure 
hour?  I  consider  that  needlework  should  always  be 
seasoned  with  good  reading,  especially  when  the  work 
has  such  an  object  as  here. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Ah,  but  it  is  a  sacrifice  on 
your  part  all  the  same,  Dr.  Rorlund. 

Dr.  Rorlund.  Pray  don't  speak  of  it,  dear  lady. 
Do  not  all  of  you  make  sacrifices  for  a  good  cause  ? 
And  do  you  not  make  them  willingly  and  gladly  ?     That 


30  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

is  as  it  should  be.  The  Lapsed  and  Lost,  for  whom  we 
are  working,  are  like  wounded  soldiers  on  a  battlefield;, 
you,  ladies,  are  the  Red  Cross  Guild,  the  Sisters  of  Mercy, 
who  pick  lint  for  these  unhappy  sufferers,  tie  the  ban- 
dages gently  round  the  wounds,  dress,  and  heal  them 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  It  must  be  a  great  blessing 
to  see  everything  in  so  beautiful  a  light. 

Dr.  Rorlund.  The  gift  is  largely  inborn;  but  it  can 
in  some  measure  be  acquired.  Tribulation  and  afflic- 
tion are  a  good  school.  I  am  sure  that  you,  Mrs.  Ber- 
nick, have  become  aware  of  a  purer  and  more  beautiful 
light  even  as  your  bodily  eyes  grew  dim. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Ah,  do  not  speak  of  that,  Dr. 
Rorlund!  I  must  confess  I  am  often  worldly  enough  to 
want  to  exchange  the  inner  light,  if  I  could  recover  the 
outer  light  instead. 

Dr.  Rorlund.  We  have  all  such  moments  of  temp- 
tation. But  we  have  to  be  on  our  guard.  And,  in 
truth,  Mrs.  Bernick,  what  have  you  really  lost?  Have 
you  not  much  rather  gained  a  barrier  between  yourself 
and  the  world  ?  Are  you  not  at  your  ease  here  in  a  circle 
of  kind  and  sympathetic  friends  ?  Do  you  really  find  so 
much  to  attract  you  in  the  life  you  hear  surging  outside  ? 
Look  at  the  people  in  the  sweltering  sunshine,  toiling 
and  moiling  over  their  paltry  affairs  and  paltry  sorrows. 
Ours,  surely,  is  the  better  part,  sitting  here  in  the  pleasant 
shade,  and  turning  our  backs  toward  the  quarter  from 
which  disturbance  might  arise. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Yes,  no  doubt  you  are  quite 
right 

Dr.  Rorlund.  And  in  a  house  like  this,  in  a  good 
and  pure  home,  where  the  Family  is  seen  in  its  fairest 
shape,  where  peace  and  unity  reign —  (To  Mrs.  Ber- 
nick Junior.)     What  are  you  listening  to,  Mrs.  Bernick  ? 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  31 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior  (who  has  turned  towards  the 
door  of  her  husband's  room) .  How  loudly  they  are  talk- 
ing in  there! 

Dr.  Rorlund.     Is  anything  particular  going  on  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  I  don't  know.  There  is  evi- 
dently someone  with  my  husband. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.     Who  can  it  be? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     I  don't  know  in  the  least 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Why,  that's  your  father  who 
is  talking  so  loudly,  Betty! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Yes,  I  believe  it  is 

(Hilmar  Tonnesen,  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
comes  in  by  the  door  on  the  right,  but  stops  on  seeing 
so  many  ladies.) 

Hilmar.     Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon 

(Turning  to  go.) 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Come  in,  Hilmar,  come  in. 
You  are  not  disturbing  us.     Do  you  want  anything  ? 

Hilmar.  No,  I  just  happened  to  be  passing.  Good- 
morning,  ladies.     (To  his  sister.)     Is  he  here  still? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Who? 

Hilmar.     The  old  man. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Yes,  I  can  hear  father  in 
Bernick's  room.     I  didn't  know 

Hilmar.  I  wish  I  could  guess  what  they  want  with 
him 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     But  what  is  it  at  all ? 

Hilmar.     Don't  you  know  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     No,  I  know  nothing. 

Hilmar.  Don't  you  know  that  Bernick  has  called  a 
railway  meeting? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Has  he? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.     Has  Karsten? 

Mrs.  Rummel.     A  railway  meeting? 


32  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  Is  Mr.  Bernick  going  to  build  a 
railway  ? 

Mrs.  Holt.  Only  think,  if  we  were  to  have  a  rail- 
way here! 

Dr.  Rorlund.  Oh,  let  us  hope  that  is  a  very  distant 
prospect. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  But  what  did  father  say  to 
it? 

Hilmar.  Do  you  think  lie  said  anything?  I  don't 
suppose  he  had  any  idea  of  what  they  were  going  to  talk 
about.  But  I  heard  it  from  Knap.  They've  sent  a  list 
round  to  Sandstad,  to  Rasmussen — Rasmussen  on  the 
hill — and  to  Vigeland — and  to  the  old  man  as  well. 
Goodness  knows  why  he  should  be  in  it. 

Mrs.  Rummel.  But  they  are  our  capitalists,  Mr. 
Tonnesen! 

Hilmar.  Yes,  if  capital  could  do  it,  it  might  perhaps 
succeed;  but  you  want  intelligence  as  well,  and  that's  a 
class  of  goods  of  which  there  is  no  great  supply  here — I 
mean  in  trading  circles,  of  course! 

Mrs.  Rummel.  No,  I  hardly  think  I  can  imagine  it, 
Mrs.  Holt! 

Mrs.  Holt.     That  we  should  have  a  railway  here! 

Hilda  Rummel.  Then  we  should  be  able  to  go  by 
train  on  Sundays! 

Dr.  Rorlund.     On  Sundays? 

Hilda  Rummel.     No,  I  meant  on  week-days. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Would  you  then  really  con- 
sider it  harmful  if  we  had  a  railway  here,  Dr.  Rorlund  ? 

Dr.  Rorlund.  No,  I  should  by  no  means  consider  it 
absolutely  harmful.  Its  harmfulness  would  depend  upon 
so  much  else.  Nor  can  one  in  our  days  cut  one's  self  off, 
even  if  one  wished  it.  And  even  at  the  present  time  this 
town  is  connected  in  such  manifold  ways  with  the  outer 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  33 

world  and  in  contact  with  much  that  is  not  as  it  should 
be.  It  is  not  indeed  a  question  of  a  temptation  more  or 
less,  Mrs.  Bernick!  Of  such  we  have  enough  already — 
both  here  and  elsewhere.  No,  we  must  seek  a  shield  and 
buckler  in  our  own  mind;  but  first  and  foremost,  of 
course,  with — ;  well,  that  is  understood. 

Hilmar.  Well,  I  should  be  very  glad  if  they  could 
build  us  [if  they  would  begin  to  squabble  about]  a  rail- 
way.    It  would  be  a  variety  at  least. 

Dr.  Rorlund.  Oh,  I  think  there  is  quite  enough 
variety  here  as  it  is. 

Hilmar.  Possibly.  But  here  I  am  smoking.  I  really 
beg  your  pardon,  ladies. 

(Going  towards  the  back.) 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  By  all  means  smoke;  I  think 
it  is  a  good  cigar 

Hilmar.  No,  it's  a  very  bad  cigar;  there  isn't  such 
a  thing  as  a  good  cigar  to  be  got  in  the  whole  town. 
That's  another  of  the  pleasures  of  provincial  life.  (Turn- 
ing over  the  leaves  of  Rorlund's  book.)  "Hours  of 
Repose  in  the  Bosom  of  Nature."  What  rubbish  is 
this! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Oh,  Hilmar,  you  mustn't  say 
that!     You  have  surely  not  read  the  book. 

Hilmar.     No,  and  don't  intend  to. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  You  seem  out  of  sorts  to- 
day. 

Hilmar.     Yes,  I  am. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Perhaps  you  didn't  sleep 
well  last  night? 

Hilmar.  No,  I  slept  very  badly.  I  went  a  walk  yes- 
terday evening,  by  my  doctor's  orders,  and  came  across 
Evensen.  Then  we  went  up  to  [looked  in  at]  the  club 
and  stayed  there  till  half  past  twelve.     Evensen  was  tell- 


84  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

ing  me  about  a  polar  expedition.  An  extraordinary  im- 
agination that  man  has. 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Well,  it  doesn't  seem  to  have  agreed 
with  you. 

Hilmar.  No,  I  lay  tossing  all  night  half  asleep,  and 
dreamt  I  was  being  chased  by  a  horrible  walrus.  Ugh, 
there  he  is  shouting  again! 

The  Ladies.     Who  is  shouting? 

Hilmar.  Old  Tonnesen,  of  course.  He  never  can 
moderate  his  voice,  and  it  always  makes  me  so  nervous. 

Dr.  Rorlund.  The  others  are  not  whispering  either, 
it  seems  to  me.     I  fear  Mr.  Bernick  is  being  sorely  tried. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  When  my  son  has  resolved 
upon  anything,  he  is  capable  of  carrying  it  out,  Dr. 
Rorlund ! 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Yes,  indeed,  he  has  shown  that  many 
a  time.  We  have  to  thank  Mr.  Bernick  for  our  water 
supply  and  the  new  street  lamps 

Mrs.  Holt.  — and  proper  paving  and  trees  in  the 
market-place! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Dear  me,  yes!  what  a  great 
change  there  has  been  in  this  town!  When  I  think  of 
the  time  when  I  was  young 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Oh,  you  needn't  go  back 
more  than  twelve  or  fourteen  years.  And  it  is  not  only 
outwardly  that  things  have  changed,  but  inwardly  almost 
more  so.  Heavens,  what  a  life  it  was  people  led  here! 
There  was  a  dancing  club  and  a  music  club 

Martha.  And  the  dramatic  club — I  remember  it 
quite  well. 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Yes;  it  was  there  your  play  was 
acted,  Mr.  Tonnesen. 

[Hilmar.     Oh,  nonsense !1 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  35 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  Mr.  Tonnesen's  play?  Wasn't  it 
in  that  play  you  told  me  you  played  the  heroine,  Mrs. 
Rummel  ? 

Mrs.  Rummel  (glancing  at  Rorlund).  I?  I  really 
don't  remember,  Mrs.  Salvesen.  But  I  remember  too 
well  all  the  noisy  gaiety  that  went  on  among  families. 

Mrs.  Holt.  Yes;  I  actually  know  houses  where 
there  were  two  great  dinner-parties  in  one  week. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  And  in  the  summer  we  had 
picnic  parties  both  on  sea  and  land 

Dr.  Rorlund.  And  that  on  Sundays  too,  from  what 
I  have  been  given  to  understand. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Yes,  at  that  time  we  knew 
no  better.     We  even  thought  it  extremely  amusing. 

Dr.  Rorlund.  Well,  to  unaided  human  nature  such 
things  are  amusing.  But  we  have  to  overcome  that, 
Mrs.  Bernick! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  I  must  say,  though,  that 
there  were  many  circumstances  which  in  a  way  excused 

US. 

Dr.  Rorlund.     Excused ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Or,  if  they  didn't  excuse  us, 
at  any  rate — well,  the  men  at  that  time  had  little  to  do, 
and  we  women  still  less.  We  had  our  housekeeping  and 
nothing  else.  None  of  our  societies  had  then  been 
started.  Until  you  came  here  no  one  thought  of  any- 
thing of  the  kind. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  And  yet  there  were  serious 
people  among  us  even  then. 

Dr.  Rorlund.  Were  there  really?  And  who  were 
they? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Oh,  there  were  several. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Betty  is  no  doubt  thinking 
of  Lona  Hessel  in  particular. 


36  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Dr.  Rorlund.  Hessel  ?  Is  that  the  Miss  Hessel 
who  lives  abroad  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Yes;  she  has  lived  abroad  a 
long  while;  ever  since ■ 

Dr.  Rorlund.     How  long,  do  you  say? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.    No,  I  can't  remember  exactly. 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Oh,  Mrs.  Bernick,  can't  you  remem- 
ber, she  went  away  just  at  the  time  you  were  married  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  No,  I  really  don't  remember 
that. 

Mrs.  Holt.  She  is  probably  roving  about  all  over 
the  place,  in  Germany,  France,  Italy. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  We  have  not  heard  from  her 
for  several  years.  She  was  a  very  distant  relative  of 
my  late  husband,  Dr.  Rorlund.  But  she  never  writes. 
Heaven  knows  whether  she  has  found  peace  anywhere. 

Dr.  Rorlund.  I  doubt  it,  Mrs.  Bernick!  That 
peace  which  we  lack  within  ourselves  can  scarcely  be 
found  outside.  And  least  of  all  abroad.  We  see  every 
day,  both  in  newspapers  and  books,  how  matters  stand 
there.  Doubt  and  fermenting  unrest  on  every  side;  the 
soul  at  war  with  itself,  insecurity  in  every  relation  of  life; 
disintegration  of  family  life  and  a  spirit  of  subversion  in 
the  great  communities.  No;  we  ought  to  thank  God 
that  our  lot  is  ordered  as  it  is.  A  tare,  alas!  will  now 
and  then  spring  up  among  the  crop;  but  we  live  upon  a 
soil  where  things  can  grow,  whether  they  turn  to  good  or 
evil. — Therefore,  as  I  was  saying,  I  should  very  much 
doubt  that  Miss  Hessel  has  found  peace  far  from  home, 
if  it  was  that  she  went  to  seek. 

Martha.  Perhaps  we  shall  see  sooner  than  anyone 
thinks. 

Mrs.  Holt.  Yes,  who  was  it  said  that  she  was  com- 
ing  home  this  summer? 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  37 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Oh,  that  has  been  said  so 
many  times.     I  don't  suppose  anything  will  come  of  it. 

Martha.     But  this  time  it  may  come  true. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Surely  you  know  something, 
child ;  one  can  tell  that  from  the  way  you  speak. 

Martha.    No,  indeed  I  know  nothing;  but  I  think 

Dr.  Rorlund.  Telegraph  secrets!  We  must  not  en- 
quire more  closely. 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Well,  if  she  comes  home  this  summer, 
she  will  find  great  changes  indeed!  She  left  just  when 
things  were  at  their  worst,  and  the  town  was  upside- 
down.  That  was  the  winter  Moller's  comedy  company 
was  here.  Don't  you  remember,  Mrs.  Bernick,  they 
played  in  Holm  the  sailmaker's  hall  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick.     Yes,  very  likely. 

Mrs.  Holt  (loith  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Rummel).  H'm 
— h'm. 

Mrs.  Rummel  (without  noticing  it).  No,  there's  no 
doubt  about  it.  I  remember  it  as  clearly  as  if  it  were 
to-day.  Yes,  that  winter  there  were  fine  doings  in  the 
town.     Wasn't  it  that  year  that ? 

Mrs.  Holt  (as  before).     H'm ! 

Mrs.  Rummel  (noticing  her).  No,  of  course — .  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  saying 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  But  don't  you  think  we'd 
better ? 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  But  what  was  the  real  truth  of  all 
the  wild  stories  of  that  time  ?  I  am  so  new  to  the  town 
that  I  don't  know  what  happened 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Oh,  it  was  really  nothing  after  all. 
Mrs.  Salvesen! 

Mrs.  Holt.  Dina,  dear,  hand  me  that  piece  of  linen, 
please. 


38  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior  (at  the  same  time).  Dina,  my 
love,  will  you  go  and  ask  Katrina  to  bring  the  coffee  into 
the  verandah. 

Martha.     I  will  help  you,  Dina. 

(Dina  and  Martha  go  out  by  the  second  door  on  the 
left.) 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  And  now  we  may  put  aside 
our  work  for  to-day.  Come,  let  me  help  you,  mother 
dear!     Will  you  come,  ladies? 

(She  and  Rorlund  lead  Mrs.  Bernick  Senior  out 
to  the  verandah.  The  other  ladies  have  risen  and 
are  arranging  their  work  on  the  table  in  the  room.) 

Mrs.  Rummel  (softly).  Oh  dear,  Mrs.  Salvesen,  how 
you  frightened  me! 

Mrs.  Salvesen.     I? 

Mrs.  Holt.  Ah,  but  you  began  it  yourself,  Mrs. 
Rummel. 

Mrs.  Rummel.  I?  Oh,  how  can  you  say  so,  Mrs. 
Holt?     Not  a  single  word  passed  my  lips. 

Mrs.  Salvesen.     But  what  is  the  matter? 

Mrs.  Rummel.  How  could  you  talk  about —  ?  Only 
think — didn't  you  see  that  Dina  was  in  the  room  ? 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  But,  mercy  on  us,  what  is  the 
matter  ? 

Mrs.  Holt.  Here,  in  this  house,  too.'  Don't  you 
know  that  it  was  Mrs.  Bernick's  brother ? 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  What  about  him  ?  I  know  nothing 
at  all;  remember  I  am  quite  new  to  the  town 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Then  you  haven't  heard  that — ? 
H'm;  don't  wait  for  us,  Hilda. 

Mrs.  Holt.  You  go  too,  Netta.  And  be  sure  you 
are  very  kind  to  Dina  when  she  comes. 

(Hilda  and  Netta  go  out  into  the  verandah.) 


PILLARS    OF  SOCIETY  39 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  Well,  what  about  Mrs.  Bernick's 
brother  ? 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Don't  you  know,  he  was  the  hero  of 
the  scandal  ? 

Mrs.  Salvesen.     Mr.  Hilmar  the  hero  of  a  scandal! 

Mrs.  Holt.  No,  not  he,  Mrs.  Salvesen!  It  was  the 
other  brother 


Mrs.  Rummel.     The  prodigal  brother 

Mrs.  Holt.     Old  Tonnesen's  youngest  son;  one  who 
was  a  sailor.     He  ran  away  to  America. 

Mrs.  Salvesen.     And  there  was  a  scandal  about  him  ? 
Mrs.  Rummel.     Yes,  there  was  a  sort  of — what  shall 
I  call  it  ? — a  sort  of  a — with  Dina's  mother. 

Mrs.  Salvesen.     Oh,  no!    how  unfortunate  that  I 

knew  nothing 

Mrs.    Rummel.     Hush,    there    she    comes.     (Loud.) 
Yes,  as  you  say,  Dina  is  really  quite  a  clever  girl — What 
are  you  there,  Dina?     We  are  just  finishing  our  work 
here. 

Mrs.  Holt.     Ah,  how  nice  your  coffee  smells,  my  dear 
Dina.     It  will  be  a  treat  to  take  a  little  cup  of  it. 

(Martha  and  Dina  have  meanwhile  helped  the  ser- 
vant to  bring  in  the  coffee  things.  The  ladies  go 
out  and  sit  down;  they  vie  with  each  other  in  talk- 
ing kindly  to  Dina.  After  a  time  she  comes  into 
the  room  and  looks  for  Iter  sewing.) 
Mrs.    Bernick:   Junior    (on  tlie  verandah).     Dina, 

don't  you  want ? 

Dina.     No,  thanks;  I  haven't  nearly  finished. 

(She  takes  her  sewing  and  sits  down  on  the  right, 
with  her  back  turned  towards  the  end  of  the  table. 
Mrs.  Bernick  Junior  and  Rorlund  exchange 
a  few  words;  a  moment  after,  he  comes  into  the 
room.) 


40  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rorlund  {goes  up  to  tlie  table,  as  if  looking  for  some' 
thing,  and  says  in  a  low  voice).     Dina! 

Dina.     Yes! 

Rorlund.     Why  will  you  not  come  out? 

Dina.     You  know  very  well. 

Rorlund.  Do  you  think  that  anyone  is  speaking  ill 
of — of  one  who  is  absent? 

Dina.  I  am  sure  they  are  not  spealcing  of  one  who  is 
absent. 

Rorlund.     Well,  what  then  ? 

Dina  (quivering).  I  know  that  they  are  thinking 
about  her — all  of  them. 

Rorlund.     Thinking  evil  ? 

Dina.     No! 

Rorlund.     There,  you  see!  .. 

Dina.     They  do  what  is  worse. 

Rorlund.     What  is  worse,  then  ? 

Dina.     Oh,.  I  know  well  enough;  they  pity  ker. 

Rorlund.     Do  you  call  that  worse  ? 

Dina.     Yes. 

Rorlund.     Yours  is  a  rebellious  nature,  Dina. 

Dina  (softly).     Yes. 

Rorlund.     What  makes  it  so  ? 

Dina.     It  has  never  been  otherwise. 

Rorlund.     But  could  you  not  try  to  change? 

Dina.     No. 

Rorlund.     Do  you  not  think  it  would  be  of  any  use  ? 

Dina.     No. 

Rorlund.  And  why  don't  you  think  it  would  be  of 
any  use? 

Dina.     You  know  quite  well  why. 

Rorlund.     No,  I  do  not.     Tell  me. 

Dina  (holes  up  at  him  firmly).  Because  I  belong  to 
the  Lapsed  and  Lost 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  41 

Rorlund.     Fie! 

Dina.     Mother  and  I  belong  to  the  Lapsed  and  Lost. 

Rorlund.  I  am  sure  no  one  in  this  house  has  ever 
said  that  to  you. 

Dina.     No,  but  they  think  it. 

Rorlund.  I  have  often  seen  signs  of  this  distrust  in 
you.  Has  it  anything  to  do  with  your  sometimes  con- 
cealing your  movements  ? 

Dina.     What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

Rorlund.     Where  were  you  late  yesterday  evening, 

Dina  ? 

Dina  (bending  over  her  work) .     Do  you  know  that  too  ? 

Rorlund.     Where  were  you  ? 

Dina.     At  home. 

Rorlund.  At  home  ?  I  suppose  you  mean  with  your 
mother  ? 

Dina.     Yes. 

Rorlund.     I  thought  your  home  was  here  ? 

Dina.     Yes,  they  have  taken  me  into  their  house. 

Rorlund.  On  condition  that  you  do  not  visit  your 
mother. 

Dina.     Yes. 

Rorlund.     And  you  promised  that  ? 

Dina.     Yes. 

Rorlund.     And  nevertheless  you  do  visit  her? 

Dina.     Yes. 

Rorlund.    In  spite  of  your  promise  ? 

Dina.     Such  is  my  nature. 

Rorlund.     Why  do  you  do  it  ? 

Dina.     It  is  more  amusing  with  her. 

Rorlund.  Indeed?  Then  what  do  you  think  it  !3 
here  ? 

Dina.     They  are  all  good  to  me. 


42  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Rorlund.  And  these  serious  occupations  and  en- 
deavours of  ours — do  you  like  taking  part  in  them  ? 

Dina.     Yes. 

Rorlund.     For  what  reason  ? 

Dina.     Because  you  wish  it. 

Rorlund.     Do  you  like  doing  something  for  my  sake  ? 

Dina.     Yes,  I  do. 

Rorlund.     Why  ? 

Dixa.  Because  you  are  so  much  more  perfect  than 
the  others. 

Rorlund.     What  makes  you  think  that,  Dina? 

Dina.  Because  you  have  taught  me  so  much  that  is 
beautiful. 

Rorlund.  Beautiful  ?  Do  you  call  the  truths  of  re- 
ligion beautiful  ? 

Dina.     Yes. 

Rorlund.  What  do  you  understand,  then,  by  a  beau- 
tiful thing? 

Dina.     I  have  never  thought  of  that. 

Rorlund.  Then  think  of  it  now.  What  do  you  un- 
derstand by  a  beautiful  thing? 

Dina.  A  beautiful  thing  is  something  great — and  far 
away. 

Rorlund.  H'm.  Listen,  Dina,  I  want  to  say  to 
you — .     Oh,  here  they  come. 

(He  goes  up  toivards  the  verandah.  At  the  same 
moment  Old  Tonnesen  comes  noisily  out  of  Mr. 
Bernick's  room.) 

Mads  Tonnesen  (in  the  doorway).  No,  no,  no,  I 
say!  It's  no  use,  I  say!  I'm  off  now,  as  sure  as  my 
name's  Mads  Tonnesen!  (Slams  the  door.) 

Hilmar  Tonnesen  (at  the  same  time,  to  Mrs.  Ber- 
wick Junior).     There  he  is.     Good-bye! 

(Is  hurrying  off  to  the  rights 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  43 

Mads  Tonnesen.  Hilmar!  My  son  Hilmar,  wait, 
we'll  go  together.  You  ought  to  have  been  in  there, 
listening  to  your  brother-in-lav; .  I'm  damned  if  I  ever 
heard  anything  so  mad! 

Hilmar.  Hush;  don't  swear  so  horribly.  Can't  you 
see  Mrs.  Bernick  sitting  out  there? 

Mads.  What,  is  the  old  lady  there  ?  (Approaching.) 
Good  morning,  ma'am. 

Hilmar.     Come  on;  come  on: 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Good  morning,  Tonnesen. 
What  is  going  to  be  done  about  the  railway? 

Mads.  It  won't  come  to  anything,  ma'am;  he  wan  j 
to  build  it  with  our  money;  I  never  hear  A  anything  so 
unreasonable! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  But  I  suppose  he  will  build 
it  with  his  own  as  welL 

Mads.  Yes,  he  can  do  what  he  likes  with  his  own 
money;  he  has  plenty  of  it;  and  he  earned  it  easily 
enough.  But  I,  ma'am,  who  began  with  two  empty 
fists 

Hilmar  (still  at  the  door).     Hands 


Mads.  J  say  fists,  my  son  Hilmar!  Yes,  ma'am,  I 
can  tell  you,  they  were  empty  then,  and  dirty  too 

Hilmar.     Ugh ! 

Mads.  But  that's  the  glory  of  labour,  ma'am,  and 
with  those  fists  I  hold  on  to  what  I've  sweated  so  hard 
for 

Hilmar.     Ugh,  ugh,  ugh! 

Mads.  Yes,  I  know  very  well  people  here  give  me 
nicknames  and  call  me  the  Badger;  but  the  Badger  will 
show  them  that  he  has  claws!  Isn't  that  so,  my  son 
Hilmar  ? 

Hilmar.     Yes,  only  do  come;  come  on! 

Mads.     Railway!     As  if  I  didn't  know  all  about  rail- 


44  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

ways.  When  a  young  man  over  in  America  gets  on 
board  a  railway,  he's  never  seen  again. — But  why  the 
devil  can't  you  come,  Hilmar!  I'm  sure  the  dinner's  on 
the  table  long  ago,  and  you  stand  here  wasting  my  time 
talking! — Good-bye,  ma'am;  good-bye,  Betty;  good-bye, 
all! 

(Old  Tonnesen  and  his  son  go  out  to  the  right.  At 
the  same  moment  Sandstad,  Rasmussen  and 
Vigeland  enter  from  the  room  on  the  left,  followed 
by  Bernick,  who  has  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his 
hand.) 

Bernick.  Well,  gentlemen,  I  shall  not  regard  this  as 
a  final  refusal.  At  any  rate  take  the  papers  home  with 
you  and  try  to  make  yourselves  better  acquainted  with 
my  calculations. 

Sandstad.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  think  that 
would  be  of  any  use,  Mr.  Bernick.  According  to  my 
best  convictions  I  cannot  advise  private  individuals  to 
venture  their  money  in  this;  and  still  less  can  I  be  a 
party  to  voting  any  public  funds. 

Rasmussen.     Nor  I  either. 

Vigeland.  To  me  it  is  evident  that  a  railway  project 
of  this  kind  would  be  opposed  to  the  most  important 
interests  of  the  town.  Think  of  all  our  steamships  in 
the  coasting  trade.     What  should  we  do  with  them  ? 

Rasmussen.  Yes,  what  should  we  do  with  the  steam- 
ships ? 

Vigeland.  And  another  thing.  If  we  get  a  railway 
round  here,  then  the  neighbouring  towns  will  also  have 
a  railway.  No  one  can  tell  what  changes  this  will  bring 
about  in  the  shipping  trade. 

Rasmussen.     No,  no  one  can  tell  that. 

Bernick.  But,  gentlemen,  what  are  you  talking 
about?     The  country  districts  round  here  have  produce 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  45 

enough  both  for  us  and  for  the  neighbouring  towns,  if 
we  only  provide  the  means  of  communication. 

Rasmussen.     Yes,  that's  right. 

Bernick.  Just  think  of  our  great  tracts  of  forest, 
which  are  now  inaccessible.  Think  of  the  minerals  it 
would  allow  us  to  work.  Think  of  our  water-power, 
with  one  waterfall  above  another; — what  rare  advan- 
tages for  manufactures  of  all  kinds! 

Rasmttssen.     Yes,  there  are. 

Vigeland.  But  all  this  would  not  benefit  the  town, 
Mr.  Bernick! 

Bernick.  My  dear  Mr.  Vigeland,  it  would  benefit 
society;  and  what  benefits  society,  would  also  benefit  us. 
Therefore  we  ought,  as  enlightened  citizens,  to  support 
the  affair  with  all  the  powers  that  are  at  our  disposal. 
But  we  must  hold  together;  that  is  all-important!  Take 
the  draft  prospectus  home  with  you ;  go  carefully  through 
all  my  calculations;  help  me,  if  you  find  any  error  in  the 
estimates; — here  is  one  for  you,  Mr.  Sandstad. 

Sandstad.     Well,  there's  no  harm  in  taking  them 

Rasmussen.     No,  there's  no  harm  in  that. 

Sandstad.     But  I  don't  think  anything  will  come  of  it. 

Rasmussen.     No,  I  don't  either. 

Bernick.  Well,  well,  gentlemen,  sleep  on  it  first. 
Perhaps  something  will  come  of  it  after  all.  Men  like 
yourselves  cannot  possibly  be  blind  to  all  the  prosperity 
and  progress  that  lies  behind  this  undertaking.  It  is  only 
the  novelty  of  the  thing  that  takes  you  by  surprise.  And 
this  disinclifljation  to  throw  one's  self  at  once  into  any- 
thing new  and  untried  is  very  estimable,  very  honour- 
able; it  is  a  good  and  a  characteristic  side  of  our  nation; 
I  even  venture  to  say,  it  is  one  of  the  best  pillars  of  our 
society.  But  when  we  have  once  convinced  ourselves  of 
the  desirability  and  opportuneness  of  a  measure,  then  it 


46  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

is  just  as  much  our  duty  not  to  draw  back,  but  to  go 
through  with  it.  Am  I  not  right,  we  are  all  agreed  on 
that? 

Vigeland.  Well,  I  won't  say  either  one  way  or  the 
other,  but 

Rasmussen.     No,  I  won't  either;  but 


Sandstad.  Then  I'll  take  the  estimates  with  me,  Mr. 
Bernick  ? 

Bernick.  Yes,  do  so,  my  dear  Mr.  Sandstad.  Dis- 
cuss the  matter  among  yourselves.  And  when  we  have 
got  so  far  as  to  be  able  to  lay  it  before  the  public  in  due 
form,  you  will  see  that  the  difficulties  are  not  nearly  so 
great  as  you  now  think. — Well,  good-bye,  gentlemen.  I 
will  not  detain  you  any  longer.  I  should  greatly  dislike 
to  appear  a  schemer  in  your  eyes;  therefore  I  wish  you 
as  soon  as  possible  to  see  the  affair  in  its  true  light. 
Good  day,  Mr.  Sandstad.  Your  children  are  quite  well, 
I  hope  ?  Good-bye,  my  dear  Mr.  Vigeland.  Good-bye, 
Mr.  Rasmussen.  Remember  me  to  Mrs.  Rasmussen. 
Good-bye,  gentlemen;  remember  me  very  kindly  at 
home! 

( The  three  men  take  their  leave  and  go  out  to  the  right.) 

Bernick  (who  has  accompanied  them  to  the  door). 
Phew!  that's  the  first  victory. 

Rorlund.     Do  you  call  that  a  victory,  Mr.  Bernick  ? 

Bernick.  Getting  them  to  take  the  papers  home? 
Yes,  Dr.  Rorlund,  that  was  a  great  victory.  I  don't  ex- 
pect anything  more  to  begin  with. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior  (approaching) .  My  dear  Kar- 
sten,  what  is  the  meaning  of  it? 

Bernick.  Oh,  my  dear  Betty,  it  can't  possibly  in- 
terest you. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior  (on  the  verandah).  Yes,  Kar- 
sten,  you  must  come  and  tell  us 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  47 

Bernick.  No,  my  dearest  mother,  it  is  something  you 
and  Betty  don't  understand. 

Rorlund.  There  is  some  talk  of  a  railway,  so  far  as 
I  could  gather. 

Bernick.  Yes,  you  shall  hear  about  it,  Dr.  Rorlund. 
You  are  a  man  of  intelligence,  and  a  man  who  stands 
outside  local  interests 

Rorlund.  I  am  certainly  far  removed  from  the  ma- 
terial interests. 

Bernick.  But  still  you  keep  pace  with  public  affairs 
— do  you  not? 

Rorlund.  Yes,  I  read  the  papers,  so  far  as  my  time 
permits;  and  of  course  one  hears  one  thing  and  another. 

Bernick.  Good,  then  of  course  you  know  that  there 
is  talk  of  making  a  line  of  railway  through  the  hills  ? 

Rorlund.  Yes,  one  that  will  not  come  down  to  our 
town. 

Bernick.  It  won't  touch  any  of  the  coast  towns 
about  here — if  it  is  carried  out.  But  that  is  what  we  are 
not  going  to  permit! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  But,  Karsten,  why  are  you 
mixing  yourself  up  in  all  this  ? 

Bernick.  H'm,  my  dear  mother,  it  would  take  too 
long  to  explain 

Rorlund.  Well,  I  am  not  a  business  man,  Oi  course; 
but  still  I  too  think  that  such  things  might  be  left  to  the 
Government. 

Bernick.  You  do?  Well,  that  is  a  view  that  we 
often  hear  expressed.  But  do  you  not  really  feel  in  your- 
self a  call,  a  need,  an  impulse  to  support  society  in  its 
striving  for  development  and  welfare? 

Rorlund.  Yes,  I  do;  within  the  sphere  that  is  al- 
lotted to  me. 

Bernick.     Yes,  within  that  sphere  you  are  [.     You 


48  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

are]  certainly  a  pillar  of  spiritual  society  among  us. 
But  I  am  now  thinking  [more  particularly]  of  practical 
life.  And  that  is  just  where  the  Government  is  found 
wanting,  Dr.  Rorlund.  The  Government  has  the  best 
intentions,  but  it  sees  no  further  than  the  needs  of  the 
moment;  it  is  lacking  in  foresight;  and  it  is  for  this 
reason  that  we  practical  men  have  to  step  in.  We  have 
been  educated  in  the  school  of  experience;  we  are — I 
think  I  may  say  so  with  all  modesty — we  are  the  best 
pillars  of  civil  society;  for  by  pillars  of  society  I  do  not 
mean  those  men  who  support  existing  institutions,  but 
those  who  promote  reasonable  and  necessary  progress. 

Mrs.  Rummel  (in  tlie  doorway  to  the  verandah) .  Oh, 
how  amusing  it  is 

Bernick.     Do  you  call  it  aniusing,  Mrs.  Rummel? 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Yes,  I  think  it  is  so  amusing  to  hear 
men  speaking. 

Berwick.  Then  you  can  look  forward  to  a  good  deal 
of  amusement,  for  we  shall  have  plenty  of  speaking  and 
writing,  and  quarrelling  and  wrangling.  But  it  shall  go! 
Ay,  if  I  have  to  risk  all  I  possess  in  the  affair,  I  am  de- 
termined to  see  it  through. 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  Do  you  think  butter  will  be  cheaper 
if  we  have  a  railway,  Mr.  Bernick? 

Bernick.  It  will  bring  prosperity  to  the  whole  com- 
munity; that  is  all  I  can  tell  you  for  the  moment.  But, 
ladies,  you  must  not  mix  yourselves  up  with  the  questions 
of  the  day;  you  must  leave  them  to  us  men.  Your  place 
is  in  the  home ;  there  you  must  bring  peace  and  comfort 
to  those  nearest  and  dearest  to  you,  as  my  dear  Betty, 
and  my  dear  old  mother  bring  peace  and  comfort  to  me 
and  to  Olaf.     Why,  where  is  Olaf  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  He  is  not  back  from  school 
yet.  (Knap  enters  from  the  right.) 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  49 

Knap.     A  ship  for  repairs,  Mr.  Bernick. 

Bernick.     Bravo!     Who  is  it? 

Knap.  A  big  American.  Sprang  a  leak  in  the  North 
Sea. 

Bernick.     And  can  we  take  her  in? 

Knap.  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say.  Things  are 
going  badly  at  the  yard,  Mr.  Bernick.  To-day  the  dril- 
ling-machine is  out  of  order  again;  and  the  steam-plane 
won't  work  either. 

Bernick.  H'm,  h'm;  I  don't  believe  Aune  will  ever 
learn  to  work  with  machines. 

Knap.  I  don't  believe  he  wants  to  learn;  he  has  set 
himself  against  the  machines  ever  since  we  put  them  in. 

Bernick.  Oh,  we  shall  be  able  to  get  over  that. 
But  under  any  circumstances — we  mustn't  lose  the  Amer- 
ican.    What  kind  of  ship  is  she  ? 

Knap.  The  barque  Indian  Girl  of  New  York,  with 
dye-wood  from  Brazil  to  St.  Petersburg. 

Bernick.     And  the  captain  ? 

Knap.  The  captain  went  overboard  in  the  North  Sea, 
and  the  mate  has  delirium  tremens.  But  a  sailor,  who 
was  on  board  as  a  passenger,  took  command  and  brought 
the  ship  into  Rsegehavn. 

Bernick.     Then  you  haven't  spoken  to  him? 

Knap.     Yes,  I  have;  he  was  on  the  steamer. 

Bernick.     Oh,  then  the  steamer's  in  ? 

Knap.  Yes,  and  he  has  come  in  here  with  the  crew 
to  get  more  hands  and  to  charter  a  tug.  Here  is  his 
card. 

Bernick  {reads).  "John  Rawlinson,  New  Orleans." 
Then  he's  from  the  Southern  States.  Well,  you  must 
see  that  you  give  him  all  the  help  you  can,  Mr.  Knap. 

Knap.     I'll  do  so,  Mr.  Bernick. 

(He  goes  out  again  to  tlie  right.) 


50  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.   Bernick  Junior   (calls  from  outside).     Good 
news,  Karsten? 

Bernick.     Business,   my  dear!     You   must  be   pre- 
pared to  receive  an  American  captain  to  dinner. 

(Olaf  Bernick,  with  a  knapsack  of  school-books  on 
his  back,  comes  running  up  the  street  and  through 
the  garden-gate.) 

Olaf.     Mamma,  mamma,  I've  been  down  seeing  the 
steamboat !     Do  you  know  who  was  on  board  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Yes,  child;   I  expect  it  was 
an  American  captain. 

Olaf.     How  do  you  know  that,  mamma? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     I  guessed  it. 

Olaf.     Then  can  you  guess  that  Aunt  Lona  was  on 
board  too  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     What  are  you  saying  ? 

Olaf.     Yes,  she  was,  mamma;  I've  seen  her  and  spo- 
ken to  her. 

Bernick.     Now  you're  not  telling  the  truth,  Olaf! 

Olaf.     Yes,  I  am  telling  the  truth. 

Bernick.     No,  you're  not;  for  you  don't  know  her. 

Olaf.     No,  but  Evensen  was  down  on  the  pier,  and 
he  knew  her. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior  (aside).     So  then ! 

Mrs.    Rummel.     Only    think — then    she    has    come 
home  after  all! 

Mrs.  Holt.     Well,  what  did  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Rum- 
mel ?  (Many  travellers  come  up  the  street.) 

Mrs.  Rummel.     Look,  look!     Well,  I  never — there 
she  is,  as  large  as  life! 

(Miss  Hessel,  in  an  elegant  travelling  costume,  with 
a  satchel  and  a  plaid  over  her  shoulder  and  a  knap- 
sack  in  her  hand,  comes  up  the  street.) 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  51 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Yes,  there  she  is!  (Runs 
down  to  the  garden-gate.)  Lona,  Lona!  Welcome 
home! 

Lona.  Why,  yes — good  morning,  Betty!  (Calls  up 
to  the  verandah.)     Good  morning,  old  auntie! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     But  do  come  inside! 

Lona.  Thanks,  presently,  presently;  I  must  go  up 
to  the  hotel  first  and  wash  myself  clean  from  top  to  toe; 
on  the  steamer  you  get  as  dirty  as  a  pig.     Au  revoir! 

(She  goes  on  up  the  street.) 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  She  hasn't  changed,  has  she, 
Betty  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior  (looking  after  her).  No, — and 
yet  she  has. 

Rorlund.  That  lady  appeared  to  me  somewhat  un- 
womanly. 

Mrs.  Holt.  How  funnily  her  dress  was  cut,  Mrs. 
Rummel ! 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Yes,  but  did  you  notice  her  hat,  Mrs. 
Holt? 

Olaf.     Hurrah,  mamma,  here  come  all  the  Americans! 

Mrs.  Rummel.  No,  look  at  these  wild  people ;  they've 
got  a  great  flag 

Mrs.  Holt.  Ugh,  I  believe  there  are  brown  and 
black  ones  among  them. 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  The  captain  is  almost  the  ugliest; 
he  has  a  regular  pirate's  face. 

Rorlund.     Yes,  that  fellow  is  capable  of  anything. 

Bernick.  Foreigners,  Dr.  Rorlund;  we  mustn't  be 
so  particular. 

(Captain  Rawlinson  and  his  crew,  with  the  Ameri- 
can flag  at  their  head,  come  up  the  street,  followed 
by  a  crowd  of  children  and  grown-up  people.) 


52  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Bernick  (waves  his  hand  from  the  steps  and  calls  6ut:) 
Good  morning,  Mr.  Rawlinson!  This  way,  if  you  please, 
sir!     I  am  Mr.  Bernick! 

Capt.  Rawlinson  (waves  his  Jiandkerchief  and  cries:) 
Very  well,  Karsten;  but  first  three  cheers  for  the  old 
Badger!     (Tfie  Americans  and  the  whole  crowd  go  past.) 

Bernick  (starting  back).     Ah! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior  (with  a  cry) .     Who  spoke  then  ? 

Martha  (involuntarily  takes  a  step  forward  and  cries:) 
Johan! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Heavens — it  was  my  brother! 

Mrs.  Rummel.     Well,  as  I'm  alive,  I  think  so  too ■ 

Bernick  (lias  composed  himself  and  says  calmly) .  It 
was  Johan  Tonnesen.     What  of  it? 

Mrs.  Holt.  Oh,  what  a  surprise!  And  how  well  he 
looked. 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  And  how  well  that  beard  suited 
him,  Mrs.  Bernick! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior  (aside).  Johan  and  Lona — 
on  the  same  day 

Bernick.  Well,  now  we  shall  have  turbulent  spirits 
among  us. 

Rorlund.  I  hope  no  one  will  succeed  in  introducing 
a  disturbing  element  here.  With  the  place  in  its  present 
state — a  home  of  peace  and  good  order  and  domes- 
ticity  

Mrs.  Rummel's  Servant-Girl  (enters  through  the 
garden-gate).  Master  sent  me  to  say,  ma'am,  that  you 
must  please  come  home;  Gurine  has  burnt  the  fish  to  a 
cinder. 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Oh,  these  servants,  these  servants; 
one  can  never  leave  anything  to  them!  Good-bye,  good- 
bye; we  shall  meet  to-morrow! 

(She  and  the  servant  hurry  off  down  the  street.) 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  53  v 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  Yes,  that's  what  you  can  expect  if 
you  trust  your  house  to  the  servants. 

Mrs.  Salvesen's  Two  Little  Girls  (come  out  of  the 
chemist's  shop,  run  to  the  garden-gate  and  call  out:) 
Mamma,  mamma,  you  must  come  and  see;  Nicholas 
has  fallen  into  the  wash-tub! 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  What  do  you  say,  children!  And  he 
had  his  new  blouse  on! 

The  Little  Girls.     Oh,  he  is  in  a  filthy  mess! 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  Oh,  these  children,  these  children! 
Good  day!     I  must  run  as  fast  as  I  can. 

(She  and  the  little  girls  hurry  into  tlie  chemist's  shop.) 

Mrs.  Holt.  Yes,  that's  what  happens  if  you  leave 
everything  lying  about.  I  make  it  my  rule  to  lock 
things  up;  and  the  keys  (slaps  her  pocket)  I  carry  about 
with  me. 

The  Postman  (comes  running  down  tlie  street  to  the 
garden-gate).  Oh,  heavens,  ma'am,  you  must  hurry 
home;   we  shall  miss  the  steamer. 

Mrs.  Holt.     Miss  the  steamer? 

Postman.  Yes,  the  second  bell's  gone  already,  and 
the  postmaster  can't  take  the  mails  on  board  till  you 
come,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Holt.  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  Cai>'t  the 
mails  go  on  board  without  me? 

Postman.  No,  ma'am;  you've  locked  up  the  post- 
master's trousers  in  the  wardrobe. 

Mrs.  Holt.  Mercy  on  us!  Good-bye,  good-bye  till 
to-morrow!  Oh,  these  men,  these  men,  they  never  can 
do  anything  for  themselves. 

(She  and  the  Postman  run  up  the  street.) 

Rorlund.  People  here  make  too  great  demands  on 
woman's  time  and  energies. 


54  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 


Martha  (aside).     Come  home- 


Mrs.  Bernick  Junior  (aside).     Both  of  them ! 

Olaf  (in  the  garden).  Mamma,  now  the  Americans 
are  shouting  hurrah  outside  grandpapa's! 

(Noise  and  cries  are  heard  far  off;   people  appear  at 
the  windows;  many  people  run  up  the  street.) 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior  (who  has  risen  and  is  groping 
for  the  door) .  Karsten — don't  you  think  as  I  do — that  it 
is  like  ghosts  from  old  times  ? 

Bernick  (starts  up  from  his  thoughts).  Oh,  come — 
ghosts  ?  Yes,  to  you,  dear  mother — you  in  the  dark,  with 
your  poor  eyes — (kisses  Iter)  but  I,  you  see,  I  am  in  the 
full  light  of  day! 

SECOND^  ACT 

(Part  of  tlie  garden  outside  Mr.  Bernick's  house.  The 
house  itself,  which  is  not  seen,  is  supposed  to  lie  to 
the  left.  At  the  back  is  the  garden  railing  with  the 
street  beyond;  on  the  right  an  open  arbour,  in  which 
is  the  ladies'  work-table.) 

(Bernick,  dressed  to  go  out,  with  gloves,  stick  and  cigar, 
is  walking  in  the  garden.  After  a  little  while  Mrs. 
Bernick  Junior  comes  from  the  house  with  a  quan- 
tity of  sewing,  which  she  places  on  tlie  table.) 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Are  you  there,  Karsten  ? 

Bernick.     Yes,  of  course  I'm  here. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  I  thought  you  had  gone  to  the 
office. 

Bernick.     I  am  waiting  for  somebody. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Oh,  perhaps  it  is  Johan  ? 

Bernick.     No. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Ugh,  then  it  must  be  this 
railway  business  again? 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  55 

Bernick.  No,  it's  a  man  I've  sent  for  here.  Why, 
what  can  it  matter  to  you  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Oh,  there's  nothing  strange 
in  my  asking. 

(Dina  enters  with  the  rest  of  the  sewing.) 

Bernick.     Are  you  going  to  work  out  here  to-day  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick.  Yes,  Dr.  Rorlund  proposed  that  we 
should  sit  here. 

Bernick.     I  see,  it's  more  public  here. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  I'm  sure  he  didn't  intend 
any  ostentation  by  it. 

Bernick.  I  didn't  mean  that  either.  There  are  loaf- 
ers enough  here  who  might  take  a  lesson  from  seeing  all 
these  industrious  ladies. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Ah,  you're  not  much  in  sym- 
pathy with  this  cause,  Karsten! 

Bernick.  Yes,  indeed  I  am!  Sew  away — so  long  as 
domestic  concerns  are  not  neglected — .  Isn't  Martha  at 
home  to-day? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  No,  Martha  of  course  is  on 
duty. 

Bernick.  That  was  a  great  piece  of  folly  of  hers, 
going  into  the  telegraph  service. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Yes,  I'm  really  afraid  she 
hasn't  strength  enough  for  it. 

Bernick.  Oh,  as  far  as  strength  goes,  she  can  do  it 
well  enough.  But  it  is  unpleasant  for  me.  It  looks  as 
if  I,  her  brother,  were  unwilling  to  support  her. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Well,  but  it  isn't  always  so 
pleasant  to  be  supported — even  by  one's  nearest  relations. 

Bernick.  A  woman  has  to  put  up  with  that  sort  of 
thing.  Why  has  she  never  wanted  to  marry?  No,  she 
is  self-willed  and  stiff-necked,  like  most —     Oh,  now 


56  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

they're  beginning  to  arrive  [here  come  Mrs.  Rummel  and 
her  daughter]. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Here  is  Mrs.  Holt  and  Netta 
too. 

Bernick.  What  a  hurry  they're  in;  I'm  inclined  to 
think  those  two  good  ladies  have  designs 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     How  do  you  mean  ? 

Bernick.  Why  do  they  always  drag  the  daughters 
with  them? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Oh,  you  know  we  agreed  that 
these  two  nice,  well-brought-up  girls  were  to  be  exam- 
ples for  Dina. 

Bernick.  H'm;  a  couple  of  mothers  with  marriage- 
able daughters  are  sure  to  have  little  designs  of  their 
own 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior-  Really,  Karsten,  can  you 
imagine  it  is  because  he 

Bernick.  Yes,  he,  he,  he;  all  the  women  in  the 
place  speak  of  him  as  he, — and  then  they  know  at  once 
who  is  meant. 

(Mrs.  Rummel  with  Hilda,  and  Mrs.  Holt  with 
Netta  meet  at  the  garden-gate  and  come  in.  At 
the  same  moment  Mrs.  Bernick  Senior  comes 
from  the  house,  led  by  Dina,  who  lias  Rorlund's 
book  in  lier  hand.  TJiere  are  greetings,  all  talking 
at  once.     During  this  Mrs.  Salvesen  joins  tliem.) 

Bernick.  Your  punctuality  really  compels  my  ad-> 
miration,  ladies!     Never  a  minute  behind  time 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  long  foi 
these  cosy  hours  of  work 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.   Did  you  bring  the  book,  Dina  J 

Dina.     Yes. 

Mrs.  Rummel.     Oh,  he's  sure  not  to  come  to-day. 

Mrs.  Holt.     No,  he's  sure  not  to 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  57 

Bernick.  Why  not?  It  is  holiday  time,  you 
know 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  that's  true;  but  aren't  you  taking  a 
holiday  too,  Mr.  Bernick? 

Bernick.  You  mean  because  I  was  taking  a  walk  here 
with  my  wife  ?  Dear  me,  one  isn't  a  mere  man  of  business 
and  nothing  else;  one  is  also  the  head  of  a  family 

Mrs.  H.  Yes,  you  may  truthfully  say  that  of  your- 
self, Mr.  Bernick 

Bernick.  And  one  wants  to  enjoy  the  society  of  one's 
own  circle;  it  is  not  a  large  one,  but  for  that  reason  it  is 
all  the  more  closely  bound  together,  Mrs.  Holt. 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Ah,  but  now  it  is  a  little  enlarged, 
isn't  it  ? 

Bernick.  Yes,  since  my  brother-in-law  has  come 
home,  you  mean. 

Mrs.  R.  They  say  he  has  become  a  perfect  gentle- 
man, as  it  is  called 

Bernick.  He  has  improved  a  good  deal — the  life 
over  there  on  a  large  scale,  you  see — in  the  war  he  served 
in  the  Navy  as  a  lieutenant 

Mrs.  R.  No,  did  he  indeed  ?  and  how  does  he  like 
being  at  home 

Bernick.     Oh,  we  said  so  little  about  that. 

Mrs.  B.  Jr.     He  was  only  in  here  for  a  minute 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  And  then  Lona  Hessel  came 
just  after 


Mrs.  R.     Oh,  then  she  was  here  too 

Mrs.  B.  Sr.     Yes,  and  she  has  changed,  to  be  sure 

[Here  is  inserted  some  dialogue  to  the  effect  that 
Johan  will  stay  at  home  to  take  over  the  management  of 
Bernick's  ship-yard,  etc.  Mrs.  B.  Jr.  asks  what  is  to 
become  of  poor  Aune.  Bernick:  That  is  a  thing  that 
my  little  Betty  must  leave  to  us  men.] 


58  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Salvesen.     Oh,  look,  there  he  is — 


Bernick.  He?  No,  not  at  all,  it's —  Oh,  he,  yes — 
of  course (Dr.  Rorlund  enters.) 

Ror.  Good  morning,  good  morning,  ladies!  Good 
morning,  Mr.  B. 

The  Ladies.     Good  morning 

Mrs.  B.  Jr.     How  late  you  are,  Dr.  Rorlund. 

Ror.  Yes,  I  sincerely  ask  your  pardon,  ladies;  but  I 
have  been  in  a  place  where  my  presence  was  more  neces- 
sary than  here 

Bernick.  You  have  just  come  from  the  harbour,  I 
see 

Ror.     Yes,  I  come  from  there. 

Mrs.  B.  Jr.  And  no  doubt  you  had  some  unpleasant- 
ness  ? 

Ror.  Well,  it  was  not  exactly  pleasant. — Will  you 
just  imagine 

Bernick.     Excuse  me — here  is  someone  I  want  to 

speak  to 

(During  this  Aune  has  come  in  through  the  garden- 
gate.     Bernick  goes  towards  him.) 

Bernick.  You're  late,  Aune!  I've  been  waiting  here 
for  you. 

Aune.  You  must  excuse  me,  sir;  but  we  had  to  get 
the  American  warped  in  first. 

Bernick.  And  do  you  think  now  you  can  get  her  re- 
paired at  once?  [The  ship  has  to  be  at  St.  Petersburg 
in  a  fortnight ] 

Aune.  I'd  get  her  repaired  all  right,  if  I  was  allowed 
to  work  in  my  own  way. 

Bernick.  At  once — I  asked  you.  In  your  own  way  ? 
We  can't  hear  of  that.  I  haven't  provided  all  these  ex- 
pensive machines  to  let  them  stand  idle,  and  it  won't  do 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  59 

for  a  foreign  ship  to  He  here  for  months  and  then  perhaps 
be  badly  repaired  after  all. 

Aune.     No,  no,  I  dare  say  that's  true. 

Bernick.  Listen  to  me,  Aune;  I  suppose  you  can 
guess  why  I  sent  for  you  ? 

Aune.     Well,  it  might  be  several  things,  I  dare  say. 

Bernick.  Yes,  it  is  several  things;  but  still  in  a  way 
they  are  all  the  same.  In  the  first  place — what  was  that 
address  you  gave  last  Saturday  evening  at  the  Workmen's 
Club? 

Aune.  It  was  about  the  harm  that  is  done  to  the 
workmen  by  all  these  new  machines 

Bernick. 


II 
FROM  THE   FIRST  ACT 

Aune.  Mr.  Bernick  wouldn't  have  said  it  like  that, 
Mr.  Krap!  But  I  know  well  enough  who  it  is  I've  got 
to  thank  for  this.     I  can  thank  you  for  it,  Mr.  Krap! 

You've  never  been  able  to  forget  a  certain  occasion 

Krap.  Occasion — occasion?  I  don't  know  what 
you're  referring  to  with  occasions.  But  I  have  told  you 
Mr.  Bernick's  wishes,  and  that  is  enough.  Now  you 
had  better  go  down  to  the  yard  again;  you're  sure  to  be 
wanted;  I  shall  be  down  myself  presently. — I  beg  your 
pardon,  ladies! 

(He  bows,  and  goes  out  through  the  garden  and  down 

the  street     Aune  goes  quietly  out  to  the  right. 

Doctor  Rorlund,  who  during  the  foregoing  has 

continued  reading,  presently  closes  the  book  with  a 

bang.) 


60  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rorlund.     There,  my  dear  ladies,  that  is  the  end. 

Mrs.  Rummel  {drying  Iter  eyes).  Oh,  what  a  beauti- 
ful tale! 

Mrs.  Holt.     And  so  moral. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Such  a  book  really  gives  one 
a  great  deal  to  think  over. 

Rorlund.  Yes,  it  shows  us  in  what  wonderful  way? 
providence  sometimes  furthers  its  designs.  This  little 
Christian  congregation  [community]  takes  refuge  in  the 
primeval  forests  of  the  far  west  in  order  to  live  in  peace 
and  unity  as  brothers  and  sisters  together.  Then  worldly- 
minded  speculators  come  and  lay  down  a  railway  straight 
through  the  quiet  region.  With  intercourse,  temptations 
and  corruption  find  an  inlet.  But  then  it  is  that  this 
convulsion  of  nature  takes  place  at  a  far  distant  spot, 
and  renders  it  necessary  to  trtmsfer  the  railway  to  quite 
another  line  of  valley.  And  as  the  last  locomotive  puffs 
away,  the  little  congregation  [community]  feels  that  it  is 
freed  from  noisy  and  sinful  toil  and  can  now  breathe 
again  in  peace  and  sabbath  stillness. 

Dina.  But  what  happens  to  the  people  in  the  other 
valley  ? 

Rorlund.  My  dear  child,  we  must  suppose  that  the 
other  valley  was  uninhabited. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  H'm ;  that  about  the  railway 
reminds  me  of  the  danger  we  were  in  last  year.  We  only 
escaped  having  the  railway  here  by  a  hair's-breadth.  But 
Karsten  managed  to  put  a  stop  to  that. 

Rorlund.  Providentially,  Mrs.  Bernick!  You  may 
be  sure  your  son  was  an  instrument  in  a  higher  hand 
when  he  refused  to  support  that  scheme. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Yes,  everything  is  wonder- 
fully linked  together  in  this  world.  It  is  difficult  to  see 
the  working  of  it.     If  we  had  not  you,  Dr.  Rorlund — I 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE  61 

It  is  really  more  than  kind  of  you  'o  sacrifice  your  leisure 
time  to  us. 

Rorlund.  Oh,  not  at  all — in  holiday-time,  you 
know 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Yes,  yes;  but  it's  a  sacrifice 
on  your  part,  nevertheless. 

Rorlund  (drawing  his  chair  nearer  to  the  ladies). 
Pray  don't  speak  of  it,  dear  lady.  Do  not  all  of  you 
make  sacrifices  for  a  good  cause  ?  And  do  you  not  make 
them  willingly  and  gladly?  That  is  as  it  should  be. 
The  Lapsed  and  Lost,  for  whom  we  are  working,  are 
like  wounded  soldiers  on  a  battlefield.  You,  ladies,  are 
the  Red  Cross  Guild,  the  Sisters  of  Mercy,  who  pick  lint 
for  these  unhappy  sufferers,  tie  the  bandages  gently 
round  the  wounds,  dress,  and  heal  them 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  It  must  be  a  great  blessing 
to  see  everything  in  so  beautiful  a  light. 

Rorlund.  The  gift  is  largely  inborn;  but  it  can  in 
some  measure  be  acquired.  Tribulation  and  affiiction 
are  a  good  school.  I  am  sure  that  you,  Mrs.  Bernick, 
have  become  aware  of  a  purer  and  more  beautiful  light 
even  as  your  bodily  eyes  grew  dim. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Ah,  do  not  speak  of  that,  Dr. 
Rorlund!  I  must  confess  I  am  often  worldly  enough  to 
want  to  exchange  the  inner  light,  if  I  could  recover  the 
outer  light  instead. 

Rorlund.  Yes,  yes;  that  is  temptation,  dear  Mrs. 
Bernick!  It  is  like  the  railway  trains  that  bring  noisy 
passengers  to  the  little  congregation  in  the  far  west.  But 
you  must  bar  the  door  against  such  an  unquiet  guest. 
And,  in  truth,  what  have  you  really  lost  ?  Have  you  not 
much  rather  gained  a  barrier  between  yourself  and  the 
world  ?  Do  you  not  feel  secure  here,  where  you  form 
•ne  of  the  pillars  of  our  little  charitable  society  ?     Do 


62  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

you  really  find  so  much  to  attract  you  in  the  life  you  hear 
surging  outside?  Look  at  the  people  in  the  sweltering 
sunshine,  toiling  and  moiling  over  their  paltry  affairs  and 
paltry  sorrows.  Ours,  surely,  is  the  better  part,  sitting 
here  in  the  pleasant  shade,  and  turning  our  backs  toward 
the  quarter  from  which  disturbance  might  arise. 


Hilmar  Tonnesen.  Oh,  it  is  this  railway  nonsense 
again. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     No!  is  it? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Poor  Karsten,  is  he  to  have 
all  that  worry  over  again ? 

Rorlund.  I  really  thought  that  affair  was  dead  and 
buried. 

Hilmar.  Well,  if  it  wasn't  before,  it's  sure  to  be 
to-day. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Did  father  say  so? 

Hilmar.  He  ?  Do  you  think  he  had  any  idea  of 
what  it  was  all  about  ?  But  I  met  Krap  just  now  and  he 
told  me  that  Bernick  had  sent  to  Sandstad,  and  Rasmus- 
sen — "  Rasmussen  on  the  hill " — and  to  Michael  Vige- 
land — "Holy  Michael,"  as  they  call  him 

Rorlund.     H'm 

Hilmar.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Doctor! — And  then  he 
sent  for  old  Tonnesen.  Goodness  knows  why  he  should 
be  in  it. 

Mrs.  Rummel.  They  are  the  town  council,  Mr. 
Tonnesen. 

Hilmar.  Old  Tonnesen  is  no  longer  on  the  town 
council. 

Mrs.  Holt.  No,  but  they  are  the  men  who  stopped 
the  scheme  last  year. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.     It  was  my  son  who  put  a 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  63 

stop  to  it  last  year,  Mrs.  Holt!  I  should  think  that  when 
anything  is  to  be  done  or  left  undone  in  this  town,  it  de- 
pends upon  Karsten. 

Mrs.  Holt.  Yes,  of  course;  there  is  no  doubt  about 
that,  but 

Hilmar.  For  that  matter,  I  shouldn't  mind  their  be- 
ginning their  twaddle  again;  it  would  be  a  variety  at 
least. 

Rorlund.  I  think  we  can  dispense  with  that  sort  of 
variety. 

Hilmar.  Well,  it  depends  upon  how  one  takes  it. — 
But  here  I  am  smoking.  I  really  beg  your  pardon, 
ladies {Going  towards  the  verandah.) 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  By  all  means  smoke;  I  think 
it  is  a  very  good  cigar 

Hilmar.  No,  it's  a  very  bad  cigar;  there  isn't  such 
a  thing  as  a  good  cigar  to  be  got  in  the  whole  town. 
That's  another  of  the  pleasures  of  provincial  life. — (Turn- 
ing  over  the  leaves  of  Rorlund's  book.)  "  The  Forest 
Community."     What  rubbish  is  this? 


Rorlund.  The  others  are  not  whispering  either,  it 
seems  to  me. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  It  must  be  very  annoying  for 
Karsten  to  have  this  tiresome  affair  up  again. 

Rorlund.  Let  us  hope  he  will  send  the  schemers 
about  their  business,  so  that  they  will  keep  quiet  in 
future. 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Bernick  has  always 
been  the  good  spirit  of  the  place 

Mrs.  Holt.  You  may  well  say  that,  Mrs.  Rummel! 
Ever  since  he  came  home  from  abroad  as  a  young 
man 


64  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Ah,  yes,  those  were  disor- 
derly times. 

Mrs.  Salvesen.     Were  things  really  so  bad  here  ? 

Mrs.  Rummel.  They  were  as  bad  as  bad  could  be, 
Mrs.  Salvesen!  You  may  thank  your  stars  that  you 
didn't  live  here  then;  and  you  too,  Dr.  Rorlund! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Yes,  what  changes  I  can  re- 
member!  When  I  think  of  the  time  when  I  was  young 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Oh,  you  needn't  go  back 
more  than  twelve  or  fourteen  years.  Heavens — what  a 
life  it  was — !  Everything  ended  in  dissipation.  There 
was  a  dancing  club  and  a  music  club 

Martha.  And  the  dramatic  club — I  remember  it 
quite  well. 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Yes;  it  was  there  your  play  was  acted, 
Mr.  Tonnesen! 

Hilmar  (at  the  back).     Oh,  nonsense ! 

Rorlund.     Mr.  Tonnesen's  play? 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  Wasn't  it  in  that  play  you  told  me 
you  played  the  heroine,  Mrs.  Rummel  ? 

Mrs.  Rummel  (glancing  at  Rorlund).  I?  I  really 
don't  remember,  Mrs.  Salvesen.  But  I  remember  too 
well  all  the  noisy  gaiety  that  went  on  among  families. 

Mrs.  Holt.  Yes;  I  actually  know  houses  where 
there  were  two  great  dinner-parties  in  one  week. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  And  in  the  summer,  when 
the  foreign  officers  were  here  with  the  training-ship 

Mrs.  Holt.     Ugh,  the  horrid  officers! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Then  we  had  picnic-parties 
both  on  sea  and  land 


Mrs.    Holt.     You   see,    Madam   Dorf   was   one   of 

Moller's  company 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  65 

Mrs.  Rummel.     And  one  evening  Dorf  came  home 

very  late 

Mrs.  Holt.     — and  quite  unexpectedly 


Mrs.  Rummel.  And  there  he  found — no,  really,  I 
don't  think  I  can  tell  you. 

Mrs.  Holt.  But — only  think; — young  Tonnesen  had 
to  jump  out  of  the  window! 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Yes,  and  it  was  an  attic  window  too! 
And  that  was  why  he  ran  away  to  America. 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  Oh,  no!  how  unfortunate  that  I 
knew  nothing 

Mrs.  Holt.  Well,  now  you  can  see  how  careful  we 
have  to  be.  Poor  Dina  can't  help  her  mother  being  a  per- 
son like  that.     She  was  then  a  child  of  six  or  seven ■ 


Rorlund.     Oh,  you  cannot  possibly  realise  the  thou- 
sand considerations — .     When  a  man  is  singled  out  as  a 
oillar  of  the  society  he  lives  in — .     Sh!  here  they  come. 
(She  looks  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  goes  out  to  the 
verandah;    Rorlund  also  goes  towards  the  back. 
At  tlie  same  moment  Old  Tonnesen  comes  noisily 
out  of  Mr.  Bernick's  room.) 
Mads  Tonnesen  (in  the  doorway).     No,  no,  no,  I  say! 
Never  while  I'm  alive,  I  say!     I'm  off  now,  as  sure  as 
my  name's  Mads  Tonnesen!  (Slams  the  door.) 

Hilmar  (at  tlie  same  time,  to  Mrs.  Bernick  Junior). 
There  he  is.  Good-bye!  (Is  hurrying  off  to  the  right.) 
Mads  Tonnesen.  Hilmar!  My  son  Hilmar,  wait, 
we'll  go  together.  Now  we  shall  see  signs  and  wonders, 
Hilmar!  I'm  damned  if  I  ever  heard  anything  so  mad? 
Hilmar.  Hush;  don't  swear  so  horribly.  Can't  you 
see  who  is  sitting:  out  there? 


66  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mads.  What,  is  the  old  lady  there  ?  (Approaching.) 
Good  morning,  ma'am! 

Hilmar.     Come  on;  come  on! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Good  morning,  Tonnesen. 
Well,  is  it  all  over? 

Mads.  Yes,  it'll  soon  be  all  over  with  the  whole  of 
us.  I  never  heard  anything  so  unreasonable.  Now  he 
wants  to  build  the  railway  after  all! 

Rorlund.     What  do  you  say  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.     Who? 

Mads.     Your  son,  of  course! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     But,  my  dear  father ? 

The  Three  Ladies.     No,  can  it  be  possible ! 

Mads.  No,  it's  quite  impossible!  It  won't  come  off; 
for  he  wants  to  build  it  with  our  money 


Rorlund.  But  this  is  quite  contrary  to  what  Mr. 
Bernick  last  year 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Your  father  must  be  mis- 
taken, Betty. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Yes,  I  can't  suppose  any- 
thing else. 

(Sandstad,  Rasmussen  [Rummel]  and  Vigeland 
enter  from  the  room  on  the  left,  followed  by  Bernick, 
who  has  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand.) 

Bernick.  Well,  gentlemen,  I  shall  not  regard  this  as 
a  final  refusal.  At  any  rate  take  the  papers  home  with 
you  and  try  to  make  yourselves  better  acquainted  with 
my  calculations. 

Sandstad.  I'm  a  plain-spoken  man,  Mr.  Bernick, 
and  I  say  the  same  this  year  as  I  said  last 

Bernick.  But  the  case  is  not  the  same  this  year  as 
last. 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  67 

Rasmussen.     No,  it  is  not 

Sandstad.  Well,  be  that  as  it  may,  I  cannot  advise 
private  individuals  to  venture  their  money  in  this;  and 
still  less  can  I  be  a  party  to  voting  any  public  funds. 

Rasmussen.     Nor  I  either. 

Vigeland.  And  then  I  am  afraid  it  will  lead  us  into 
worldliness,  Mr.  Bernick!  The  minds  of  all  serious 
people  are  now  intent  upon  the  building  of  the  new 
meeting-house.  And  we  must  think  of  spiritual  needs 
before  all  else. 

Bernick.     Of  course,  of  course,  Mr.  Vigeland ;  but 

Sandstad.  Yes,  you've  chosen  your  time  as  unfor- 
tunately as  you  could  have,  Mr.  Bernick!  Excuse  my 
plain-speaking;  but  just  think  of  the  severe  storm  we  had 
in  the  North  Sea  last  week.  Nobody  can  tell  how  heavy 
the  losses  of  the  town  may  be;  damaged  ships  are  putting 
in  here  every  day 

Rasmussen.     Yes,  it  was  a  severe  storm. 

Bernick.  All  that  is  admitted;  but  you  know  that 
the  main  line  is  under  construction,  and  unless  we  are 
quick  in  arriving  at  a  decision  now,  it  will  be  too  late; 
we  shall  not  be  able  afterwards  to  get  a  branch  line 
brought  here.     You  must  bear  that  in  mind,  gentlemen. 

Sandstad.     Well,  then  we  shall  have  to  do  without. 

Bernick.  And  you  are  really  prepared  to  take  such 
a  moral  responsibility  upon  yourselves?  Are  our  great 
tracts  of  forest  to  remain  inaccessible  ?  Remember  all 
the  rich  mineral -seams  it  would  allow  us  to  work !  Think 
of  our  water-power,  with  one  waterfall  above  another! 
What  rare  advantages  for  manufactures  of  all  kinds! 

Rasmussen.     Yes,  there  are. 

Vigeland.  But  all  this  would  benefit  the  inland  dis- 
tricts more  than  the  town,  Mr.  Bernick! 


68  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rasmussen.     Yes,  that  is  true. 

Bernick.  My  dear  Mr.  Vigeland,  it  would  benefit 
society;  and  what  benefits  society,  would  also  benefit  us. 
Therefore  we  ought,  as  enlightened  citizens,  to  support 
the  affair  with  all  the  powers  that  are  at  our  disposal. 
Men  like  yourselves  cannot  possibly  be  blind  to  all  the 
prosperity  and  progress  that  lies  behind  this  undertaking. 
Take  the  draft  prospectus  home  with  you.  Go  carefully 
through  all  the  calculations.  Tell  me  if  you  find  any 
error  in  the  estimates.     Here  is  one  for  you,  Mr.  Sandstad. 

Sandstad.     Well,  there's  no  harm  in  taking  them 

Rasmussen.     No,  there's  no  harm  in  that. 

Vigeland.  I  for  my  part  won't  say  either  one  way  or 
the  other 

Rasmussen.     I  won't  either. 

Bernick.  Well,  well,  gentlemen,  at  any  rate,  sleep  on 
it  first.  We  may  perhaps  come  to  an  agreement  after 
all.  Discuss  the  matter  as  it  affects  your  own  interests 
and  those  of  society;  and  when  we  have  got  so  far  as  to 
be  able  to  lay  it  before  the  public  in  due  form,  you  will 
see  that  the  difficulties  to  be  met  are  not  nearly  so  great 
as  you  now  think. — Well,  good-bye,  gentlemen.  I  must 
not  detain  you  any  longer.  You  know  we  have  not  much 
time  for  arriving  at  a  decision.  Good  day,  Mr.  Sand- 
stad. Good-bye,  my  dear  Mr.  Vigeland.  Good-bye, 
Mr.  Rasmussen.  Good-bye,  good-bye;  remember  me 
very  kindly  at  home! 

( The  three  men  take  their  leave  and  go  out  to  the  right.) 

Bernick  {who  has  accompanied  them  to  the  door). 
Phew!  we've  got  so  far  at  least. 

Rorlund  (at  the  back).  Yes,  you  have  certainly  gone 
farther  than  last  year,  Mr.  Bernick. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior  (also  at  the  back).  But,  my 
dear  Karsten,  what  is  the  meaning  of  it  all? 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  69 

Bernick.  Oh,  my  dear  Betty,  it  can't  possibly  inter- 
est you. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Yes,  Karsten,  you  must  come 
and  tell  us ■ 

Bernick.  No,  my  dearest  mother,  it  is  something 
you  and  Betty  don't  understand. 

Rorlund.  So  you  want  to  bring  a  branch  line  here 
after  all,  Mr.  Bernick? 

Bernick.  Yes,  you  shall  hear  about  it.  You  are  a 
man  of  intelligence,  Dr.  Rorlund,  and  you  know,  of  course, 
what  has  already  been  done  in  the  matter 

Rorlund.  Yes,  I  know  that  an  inland  line  was  cho- 
sen in  preference  to  a  coast  line. 

Bernick.     Quite  right! 

Rorlund.  — and  that  you  and  the  other  leading  men 
of  the  town  refused  last  year  to  contribute  to  a  branch 
line. 

Bernick.  Exactly!  The  proposal  that  was  before  us 
last  year  was  inadmissible.  It  would  have  cost  an  un- 
reasonable amount  of  money;  we  should  have  had  to 
make  tunnels  and  bridges  and  a  great  deal  besides. 
And  now  we  can  avoid  all  that  and  get  our  line  at  an 
unusually  low  cost. 

Rorlund.     But  how  will  you  do  that,  Mr.  Bernick  ? 

Bernick.  Ah,  that's  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you! — 
Yes,  you  may  listen  too,  ladies ! — Now,  can  you  remember, 
Doctor,  that  I  was  away  for  a  week  last  spring  on  a 
journey  up-country? 

Rorlund.     Yes;  it  was  at  Whitsuntide. 

Bernick.  Precisely!  The  spring  floods  were,  as  you 
know,  extraordinarily  heavy  this  year  and  did  a  great 
deal  of  damage.  Thus  I  heard  amongst  other  things  that 
the  Trangdal  River  had  overflowed  its  banks  and  that  it 
ran  out  into  the  Trangdal  Water  along  its  old  bed.     It 


70  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

struck  me  like  a  flash  of  lightning!  I  went  up  there;  and 
what  did  I  find?  Just  as  they  told  me — the  whole 
Trangdal  ravine  lying  dry  as  a  high-road — the  Trangdal 
ravine,  you  understand,  which  had  been  the  vital  natural 
obstruction  to  the  branch  line 

Rorlund.     That  was  indeed  most  remarkable. 

Bernick.  It  was  more  than  remarkable,  Doctor!  1 
arrived  there  one  Sunday  morning,  and  as  in  an  instant 
my  eyes  were  thus  opened  to  the  immense  bearing  of  this 
occurrence,  a  feeling  almost  of  devotion  came  upon  me. 
This  convulsion  of  nature  just  at  the  eleventh  hour — ; 
was  it  not  evident  that  providence  itself  had  intervened  ? 

Rorlund.     Ah,  it  is  so  difficult  to  pronounce  upon 

Bernick.  I  am,  I  regret  to  say,  not  a  remarkably  re- 
ligious man;  but  still  I  have  at  times  my  deeper  moments 
and  that  moment  was  one  of 'them.  I  saw  before  me  the 
thousand  happy  homes  which  might  be  created  in  this 
wilderness;  I  saw  our  town,  which  hitherto  has  been  al- 
most isolated  on  the  land  side,  suddenly  brought  into 
communication  with  flourishing  inland  districts.  Life, 
prosperity,  progress  on  all  sides!  You  will  see,  you  will 
not  be  able  to  recognise  the  place  after  the  first  railway 
train  has  rolled  in.     Am  I  not  right? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.     Yes,  Karsten,  indeed  you  are! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  And  you  have  kept  all  this 
secret! 

Bernick.  Oh,  my  dear,  you  would  not  have  been 
able  to  see — ;  one  ought  never  to  speak  of  business 
matters  before  the  decisive  moment.  But  now  I  have 
the  engineers'  report — all  the  estimates; — now  we  have 
only  to  get  the  necessary  contribution  subscribed.  And 
that  must  and  shall  be  done!  Ay,  if  I  have  to  risk  all  I 
possess  in  the  affair,  I  am  determined  to  see  it  through! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.     You  are  a  man,  Karsten I 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  71 

Mrs.  Rummel.  Yes,  we  were  just  saying  that  you 
were  like  a  good  spirit  to  the  town  [were  the  good  spirit 
of  the  town,  Mr.  Bernick]. 

Mrs.  Holt.  Only  think,  if  we  should  have  a  railway 
here! 

Netta  [Dina].  Then  we  should  be  able  to  go  by 
train  on  Sundays! 

Rorlund.     On  Sundays? 

Mrs.  Rummel.     Dina  means  on  week-days,  no  doubt. 

Mrs.  Salvesen.  Do  you  think  butter  will  be  cheaper 
if  we  have  a  railway,  Mr.  Bernick? 

Bernick.  The  railway  will  bring  prosperity  to  the 
whole  community;  that  is  all  I  can  tell  you  for  the  mo- 
ment. But  that  is  just  what  we  all  have  to  work  for. 
Don't  you  agree  with  me,  Dr.  Rorlund  ? 

Rorlund.  H'm;  I  am  not  a  man  of  business,  Mr.  Ber- 
nick; and  the  restricted  community  to  which  I  belong ■ 

Bernick.  It  will  suffer  no  injury  from  the  railway,  I 
can  assure  you  of  that!  Our  busy  little  town  is  built, 
heaven  be  thanked,  on  a  sound  moral  foundation.  We 
men  will  ward  off  the  shock,  and  our  wives  and  daugh- 
ters will  continue  to  occupy  the  place  that  nature  has  as- 
signed them.  Believe  me,  the  purity  of  our  homes  is  not 
so  easily  disturbed,  if  only  our  women  remain  what  they 
ought  to  be.  Proceed  unwearied  in  your  charitable  la- 
bours, ladies,  and  be  a  support  and  comfort  to  those 
nearest  and  dearest  to  you,  as  my  dear  Betty  and  my 
dear  old  mother  are  to  me  and  Olaf — (Looks  around.) 
Why,  where  is  Olaf  to-day  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  Oh,  in  the  holidays  it's  im- 
possible to  keep  him  at  home. 

Bernick.  Then  he's  certain  to  have  gone  down  to  the 
water  again.     You'll  see,  this  will  end  in  a  misfortune. 

(Krap  enters  from  the  right) 


72  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Krap.     A  ship  for  repairs,  Mr.  Bernick. 

Bernick.     Oh?     Is  she  owned  here? 

Krap.  No,  a  big  American;  sprang  a  leak  in  the 
North  Sea 

Bernick.  Bravo!  But,  I  say — {coming  forward  with 
Krap).     Can  we  take  her  in  ? 

Krap.  Don't  know  what  to  say.  Things  are  going 
badly  at  the  yard,  Mr.  Bernick.  To-day,  drilling-machine 
out  of  order  again.     Steam-plane  won't  work  either. 

Bernick.  H'm,  h'm;  I  don't  believe  Aune  will  ever 
learn  to  work  with  machines. 

Krap.  Doesn't  want  to  learn;  has  set  himself  against 
the  machines  ever  since  we  put  them  in. 

Bernick.  Oh,  we  shall  be  able  to  get  over  that.  But 
under  any  circumstances — we-mustn't  lose  the  American. 
What  kind  of  ship  is  she  ? 

Krap.  The  barque  Indian  Girl  of  New  York.  Bound 
from  Brazil  to  Glasgow  with  dye-wood;  driven  out  of 
her  course  towards  Jutland; — boisterous  weather,  Mr. 
Bernick! 

Bernick.     And  the  captain  ? 

Krap.  Captain  went  overboard — drunk.  The  mate's- 
in  his  bunk — with  delirium  tremens.  A  passenger  took 
command — a  sailor.  She  was  towed  in  just  now  by  the 
Hamburg  steamer. 

Bernick.     Is  the  Hamburg  steamer  in  already? 

Krap.  Just  this  moment.  Here  is  the  American's 
card. 

Bernick  {reads).  "Captain  John  Tennyson.  New 
Orleans."  Then  he's  from  the  Southern  States.  Well, 
you  must  see  that  you  give  him  all  the  help  you  can,  Mr. 
Krap. 

Krap.     I'll  do  so,  Mr.  Bernick. 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  73 

Bernick.     And,  look  here — one  other  thing:    do  you 
know  whether  Mr.  Busk,  the  lawyer,  has  come  back  ? 
Keap.     Not  yet.  {He  goes  out  to  the  right.) 


Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.  Yes,  is  it  not  like  ghosts  of 
old  days  ?  Listen,  now  they're  singing.  How  it  fills  the 
air.     How  it  sounds  over  our  quiet  town 

Rorlund.  And  just  at  dinner-time  too!  While  grace 
is  being  said  in  every  quiet  home.  Look,  look,  serious 
men  are  running  to  the  windows  with  their  napkins  under 
their  chins 

Olaf  {in  the  garden).  Mamma,  now  the  Americans 
are  shouting  hurrah  outside  grandpapa's! 

Rorlund.  Hurrah?  Yes,  it  is  true!  So  this  is  the 
prodigal  son's  return.  Not  with  contrition;  not  with  the 
tears  of  repentance,  but  with  impudent  bawling,  with 
ribald  songs — !  My  dear  friends,  we  ought  not  to  wit- 
ness this.     Let  us  go  back  to  our  work! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Yes,  come,  come! 

{All  the  ladies  go  into  the  front  room  and  take  their 
places  at  the  table.) 

Rorlund  {shutting  tlie  garden  door).  There;  a  bar- 
rier between  us  and  frivolity 

Mrs.  Rummel.     Don't  look  out,  Hilda! 

Mrs.  Holt.     Nor  you  either,  Netta! 

Rorlund.     — and  a  veil  before  indecorousness 


{He  draws  the  curtains  so  that  the  room  becomes  half 
dark.) 
Bernick.     You  are  giving  yourself  too  much  trouble, 
Doctor!     We  are  so  much  accustomed  to  the  disturb- 
ances of  foreign  sailors 

Rorlund.     Foreigners — yes,    that    is    another   thing. 
But  he  who  has  now  suddenly  reappeared  among  us,  and 


74  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

who  announces  his  return  in  so  significant  a  way — ;  well, 
in  an  ordinary  house  I  would  not  express  myself  so  openly, 
but  I  know  that  within  these  walls  considerations  are 
entertained  which  outweigh  a  casual  relationship 

Bernick.  Well,  well,  well,  don't  be  alarmed; — oui 
little  society  has  its  pillars,  Dr.  Rorlund! 

Rorlund.  Pillars  that  have  stood  the  test,  Mr.  Ber- 
nick!    I  know  it,  I  know  it.     Once  before  you  put  a  stop 

to  excesses  here 

{The  door  on  the  right  is  throtvn  open  and  Lona 
Hessel  enters  quickly.) 

Lona.  No,  I  couldn't  wait  any  longer!  Here  I  am, 
dear  friends! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Lona! 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.     Lona — my  dear  girl! 

Mrs.  Holt  and  Mrs.  Rummel.     Miss  Hessel! 

Lona.  Yes,  but  don't  look  at  me;  for  the  big  wash 
didn't  come  off.  As  soon  as  I  heard  who  the  American 
was — ;   but  you  don't  know,  it  seems  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.     Ah,  we  do,  unfortunately! 

Lona.  Unfortunately  ?  Has  anything  gone  wrong  ? 
You  are  sitting  here  in  this  twilight  ?  And  sewing  at 
something  white?  There  hasn't  been  a  death  in  the 
family  ? 

Rorlund.  This  is  a  meeting,  Miss  Hessel,  of  the 
Society  for  the  Moral  Regeneration  of  the  Lapsed  and 
Lost. 

Lona.  What  ?  These  nice-looking,  well-behaved  la- 
dies, can  they  be ? 

Mrs.  Rummel.     Oh,  this  is  too  much ! 

Lona.  Ah,  I  see,  I  see!  But  look  here,  the  Lapsed 
and  Lost  will  have  to  wait  for  one  day;  they'll  be  none 
the  worse  for  it;   on  a  joyful  occasion  like  this 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  15 

Rorlund.  A  joyful  occasion  ?  Don't  you  know  that 
old  Tbnnesen's  prodigal  son  has  returned? 

Lona.  Is  the  prodigal  son  to  be  received  with  long 
faces  ?     How  do  you  read  your  Bible,  Pastor  ? 

Rorlund.     I  am  not  a  clergyman. 

Lona.  Oh;  then  you  will  be  one,  for  certain. — But, 
pah! — all  this  linen  smells  like  a  shroud.  Come  and  help 
me,  Cousin  Karsten;  we  must  have  the  doors  and  win- 
dows open. 

Mrs.  Bernick  Junior.  But,  Lona,  what  are  you 
doing ? 

Rorlund.     But,  Mr.  Bernick ? 

Bernick.  Yes,  excuse  me;  it  is  really  rather  oppres- 
sive in  here. 

Lona  (drawing  up  the  Venetian  blinds).  And  then 
broad  daylight.  So!  Now  we  are  out  of  the  sepulchral 
vault.  Look,  look;  the  whole  town  is  on  its  feet!  And 
listen,  how  they  play  and  sing  in  the  sunshine,  these  for- 
eigners! They  are  real  human  beings — full  of  sun  like 
southern  fruits.  Oh,  my  dear  aunt,  what  a  pity  it  is 
that  with  your  bad  eyes  you  can't  see  all  this  beautiful 
life 

Mrs.  Bernick  Senior.     Tell  me  about  it,  my  dear 
girl,  then  I  shall  see  it. 

Rorlund  (picking  up  his  book,  hat  and  gloves).  I 
do  not  think,  ladies,  that  we  are  quite  in  the  mood  for 
doing  more  work  to-day;  but  we  shall  meet  again  to- 
morrow. 

Lona  (as  tJie  visitors  rise  to  go) .  Yes,  by  all  means — 
I  shall  be  here. 

Rorlund.  You  ?  Allow  me  to  ask,  Miss  Hessel, 
what  you  will  do  in  our  Society? 

Lona.     Open  all  the  doors  and  windows  wide,  Pastor! 


76  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOF 

III 

FROM   THE   FOURTH  ACT 

Dina,  you  will. 

Dina.     I  am  your  wife  from  this  hour. 

Johan.     Oh,  say  that  once  more. 

Dina.     Your  wife. 

Johan.     And  all  that  lies — that  you  think  lies  behind 


us- 


Dina.  I  know  nothing  about  it;  I  only  know  that  I 
must  love  you 

Johan.  Then  I'll  burn  my  boats — this  community  of 
hypocrites  shall  never  see  us  again. 

Lona.     On  board — on  board* — Johan 

Johan.  Yes,  on  board — Ah,  but — Lona — my  dear — 
come  here — {he  leads  her  up  to  the  back  and  talks  rapidly 
to  her). 

Martha.  Dina — happy  girl !  Let  me  look  at  you  and 
kiss  you  once  more — for  the  last  time. 

Dina.  Not  the  last  time;  no,  my  dear,  dear  aunt — we 
shall  meet  again. 

Martha.  Never!  Promise  me,  Dina,  never  to  come 
back  again.  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  This  is  no 
place  for  you;  here  they  deprive  one  of  the  courage  to 
wish  to  be  happy 

Dina.  Oh,  now  I  have  courage  enough  for  anything; 
now  I  defy  them  all. 

Martha.  Yes,  out  there  in  the  great  free  world,  when 
you  are  alone  with  him,  without  all  these  terrifying  con- 
siderations, without  the  oppression  of  all  this  deadly 
respectability 

Dina.     Yes,  yes;  that  is  it! 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  77 

Martha.  My  dear  child !  Now  go  to  your  happiness 
— over  the  sea.  Oh,  how  often  have  I  sat  in  the  school- 
room and  longed  to  be  over  there.  It  must  be  beautiful 
there;   the  heaven  is  wider;   the  clouds  sail  higher  than 

here;  a  purer  air  sweeps  over  the  heads  of  the  people 

Dina.  Oh,  Aunt  Martha, — why  do  you  not  come 
with  us? 

Martha.  I?  Never!  Now  my  position  is  fixed. 
Heaven  be  praised  that  I  was  able  to  see  clearly ;  now  I 
think  I  can  give  myself  wholly  to  what  I  have  to  do. 
Dina.  I  cannot  imagine  being  parted  from  you. 
Martha.  Ah,  one  can  part  from  so  much,  Dina. 
(Kisses  her.)  But  you  will  not  have  to  learn  that  lesson, 
my  dear  child!     Promise  me  to  make  him  happy. 

Dina.  Promise  ?  I  know  of  nothing  to  promise,  will 
promise  nothing — here  I  have  learnt  to  hate  the  very 
word  promise. 

Martha.     You  shan't  promise  anything  either;    you 
have  to  remain  as  you  are,  true  and  faithful  to  yourself. 
Dina.   That  I  will,  Aunt  Martha;  for  I  must  remain  so. 
Martha.     Yes,  yes,  yes;  I  know  that  well  enough. 
Lona  (to  Johan).     Good,  good,  my  dear  boy;   that's 
the  way.     And  now  on  board! 

Johan.  Yes,  there's  no  time  to  be  lost.  Good-bye, 
Lona!  thanks,  thanks  for  all  you  have  been  to  me. 
Good-bye,  Martha;   thanks  to  you  too.     Be  happy;   the 

single  state,  you  see 

Martha.  Oh,  that  that  should  be  your  last  word! 
No,  no,  no;  but  go;  good-bye,  Johan;  good-bye,  Dina 
—and  happiness  be  over  all  your  days! 

(She  and  Lona  hurry  them  towards  the  door  in  the 
background;  hand-shakings  and  far  eiv  ells;  Johan 
and  Dina  go  quickly  out;  Lona  shuts  the  door 
after  them.) 


78  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Lona.  Now  we  are  alone,  Martha.  You  have  lost 
her  and  I  him. 

Martha.     You — him  ? 

Lona.  What  am  I  to  him  now  ?  An  old  step-sister— 
what  can  he  want  with  her?  An  encumbrance.  Men 
break  many  a  tie  when  happiness  beckons  to  them. 

Martha.     That  is  true,  sometimes. 

Lona.     Now  we  two  must  hold  together,  Martha. 

Martha.     Can  I  be  anything  to  you  ? 

Lona.  Who  more?  We  two  foster-mothers.  Have 
we  not  both  lost  our  children  ?     Now  we  are  alone. 

Martha.  Yes,  alone.  So  now  I  will  tell  you  this; 
I  have  loved  him  more  than  you. 

Lona.     Martha! — Is  this  the  truth? 

Martha.  My  whole  life  lies  in  the  words.  I  have 
loved  him,  and  waited  for  him.  'And  then  he  came;  but 
he  did  not  see  me. 

Lona.  Loved  him!  And  it  was  you  that  with  such 
self-sacrifice  gave  his  happiness  into  his  hands. 

Martha.  How  could  I  love  him,  if  I  were  not  willing 
to  give  him  his  happiness?  Yes,  I  have  loved  him;  I 
have  lived  my  whole  life  for  him,  ever  since  he  went  away. 
Oh,  it  was  really  a  happy  life,  though  a  life  of  longing 
and  impatience 

Lona.  And  you  call  yourself  impatient  who  have 
waited  all  these  years  ? 

Martha.  Yes,  that  was  the  misfortune,  that  I  did 
not  notice  how  the  years  were  going  by.  When  he  went 
away  we  were  of  the  same  age;  and  when  I  saw  him 
again — Oh,  that  horrible  moment — I  realised  that  I  was 
ten  years  older  than  he.  He  had  lived  out  there  in  the 
bright,  quivering  sunshine,  and  drunk  in  health  at  every 
breath:  and  here  sat  I  the  while,  spinning  and  spin- 
ning  


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  79 

Lona.     — the  thread  of  his  happiness,  Martha. 

Martha.  Yes,  it  was  gold  I  spun.  No  bitterness;  the 
problem  is  not  how  to  be  happy,  but  how  to  deserve  hap- 
piness. 

Lona.  That  is  true,  Martha — would  that  certain 
others  thought  the  same. 

(Consul  Bernick  comes  out  of  the  room  on  the  left.) 

Bernick  (speaking  off).  Yes,  yes,  settle  it  as  you 
please;  when  the  time  comes,  I  shall  be  ready — (Shuts 
the  door.)  Oh,  are  you  there?  Now,  Martha,  you 
might  as  well  look  to  your  dress  a  little;  and  tell  Betty  to 
do  the  same.  Nothing  out  of  the  way,  of  course;  just  a 
certain  note  of  festivity — but  be  quick 

Lona.  And  you  must  look  bright  and  happy,  Martha; 
your  brother  forgot  that. 

Martha.     I  will  tell  Betty. 

(She  goes  out  by  the  second  door  on  the  left.) 

Lona.     Well,  so  the  great  and  solemn  hour  has  come. 

Bernick.     Yes,  it  has  come. 

Lona.     Now  you  must  feel  proud  and  happy,  no  doubt. 

Bernick  (looks  at  her).     H'm! 

Lona.     The  whole  town  is  to  be  illuminated,  I  hear. 

Bernick.     Yes,  I  believe  there  is  some  such  idea. 

Lona.  All  the  guilds  will  turn  out  with  their  banners; 
Hilmar  has  written  a  song  and  Pastor  Rorlund  is  going 
to  make  a  speech.  To-night  it  will  be  telegraphed  to 
every  corner  of  the  country — "  Surrounded  by  his  happy 
family,  Consul  Bernick  received  the  homage  of  his  fellow 
citizens  as  one  of  the  chief  pillars  of  society " 

Bernick.  So  it  will ;  and  the  crowd  in  the  street  will 
shout  and  hurrah,  and  insist  on  my  coming  forward  t» 
the  window — and  I  shall  have  to  bow  and  thank  them 

Lona.     Have  to —  ?  that's  hardly  the  right  expression. 


80  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Bernick.  Do  you  think  I  feel  happy  at  this  mo- 
ment ? 

Lona.  No,  I  do  not  think  that  you  can  feel  altogether 
happy. 

Bernick  {after  a  pause).     Lona,  you  despise  me. 

Lona.     Not  yet. 

Bernick.  And  you  have  no  right  to.  And  yet — yes, 
yes,  after  all,  there  are  times  when  I  despise  myself.  But 
you  cannot  conceive  how  unspeakably  alone  I  stand,  here 
in  this  narrow,  hypocritical  society — you  cannot  conceive 
how,  year  by  year,  I  have  had  to  put  a  tighter  curb  on 
my  ambition  for  a  full  and  satisfying  life-work.  What 
have  I  accomplished,  for  all  the  show  it  makes  ? — scrap- 
work,  odds  and  ends — there  is  no  room  here  for  other 
and  larger  work.  If  I  tried  to  go  a  step  in  advance  of  the 
views  and  ideas  of  the  day,  all  my  influence  was  gone. 
Do  you  know  what  we  are,  we,  who  are  reckoned  the 
pillars  of  society?  We  are  the  slaves  of  society,  neither 
more  nor  less. 

Lona.     And  why  do  you  only  see  this  now? 

Bernick.  Do  you  think  there  have  not  been  mo- 
ments, when  this  has  been  uppermost  in  me  ?  But  then 
the  lukewarm  currents  of  everyday  life  came  over  me 
again.  And  so  lonely  as  I  was!  Lona — why  did  I  not 
know  you  through  and  through  then  ? 

Lona.     What  then? 

Bernick.  I  should  never  have  given  you  up;  and, 
with  you  by  my  side,  I  should  not  have  stood  where  I 
stand  now. 

Lona.  And  are  you  so  certain  of  what  she  might  have 
been  to  you,  she,  whom  you  chose  in  my  stead  ? 

Bernick.  I  know,  at  any  rate,  that  she  has  not  been 
anything  that  I  required.  You  will  say  that  the  fault  is 
mine — but  how  does  that  help  ?     And  yet  she  might  have 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  81 

met  me,  might  have  shared  my  interests,  might  now  and 
then  have  thrown  upon  me  a  ray  of  that  disconnected, 
spasmodic  way  of  looking  at  things,  which  a  man  cannot 
exactly  make  use  of  in  his  work,  but  which  nevertheless 
has  an  inspiring  and  purifying  effect  on  his  whole  course 
of  conduct.  It  is  this  power  that  the  women  among  us 
are  not  allowed  to  exercise;  most  of  them  do  not  even 
possess  it;  Lona — not  one  in  a  thousand  has  the  courage 
to  be  like  you 

Lona.     That  is  to  say — to  be  herself. 

Bernick.  Yes,  and  to  be  what  a  man  most  profoundly 
needs.  That  is  why  I  never  felt  satisfaction  when  for- 
tune was  with  me,  never  felt  the  stimulating  increase  of 
strength  which  may  result  from  adversity;  my  whole 
life  has  been  a  series  of  petty  annoyances  or  petty,  stale 
triumphs — like  the  one  we  are  going  to  have  now 

Lona.     This  too? 

Bernick.  I  have  not  sunk  so  low  that  empty  glitter 
can  smother  what  I  have  to  say  to  myself  in  secret. 

Lona.     Then  why  not  break  with  all  this  hollowness  ? 

Bernick.  You  don't  understand.  You  don't  know 
the  inner  force  that  drives  a  man  to  work  and  accom- 
plish something  in  this  world.  It  is  different  with  you 
women;  you  must  have  something  to  love,  a  cat  or  a 
dog  or  a  canary,  if  you  have  nothing  else.  You  think  I 
am  working  for  my  own  profit,  but  that  is  not  so;  what 
I  have  done  has  brought  me  profit,  it  is  true,  but  it  is  not 
for  that  I  have  been  working — I  have  wanted  to  be  the 
first — but  I  know  that  this  is  also  to  the  advantage  of 
society. 

Lona.  And  yourself?  What  satisfaction  does  this 
give  you  ? 

Bernick.  None;  the  whole  of  this  generation  or 
shams  must  go  under.     But  a  new  generation  will  grow 


82  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

up  after  us;  it  is  my  son  that  I  am  working  for;  it  is 
for  him  I  am  preparing  a  foundation;  there  will  come 
a  time  when  truth  will  make  its  way  into  our  social  or- 
der, and  upon  it  he  shall  found  a  happier  life  than  his 

father's 

Lona.  With  a  lie  for  its  groundwork?  Think  what 
it  is  you  are  giving  him  for  an  inheritance * 

*  Here  a  couple  of  lines  have  been  omitted  in  copying 
Ibsen's  MS.     In  the  published  play  they  read: — 

Bernick  (with  suppressed  despair).  I  am  giving  him 
an  inheritance  a  thousand  times  worse  than  you  know 
of.     But,  sooner  or  later, 

the  curse  must  pass  away.  I  have  gone  a  hundred  times 
further  than  you  suspect,  but  good  can  turn  to  evil,  and 
so  too  can  evil — ;  why  did  you  come  here  ?  I  shall  not 
give  way;  cannot  give  way;  you  shall  not  succeed  in 
crushing  me 

Hilmar  (enters  quickly  from  tlie  right).  WThy,  this  is — 
Betty,  Betty! 

Bernick.     What  now?     Are  they  coming  already? 

Hilmar.     No,  certainly  not;     but  I  must    speak  to 

some  one  at  once 

(Goes  out  by  the  second  door  on  the  left.) 

Lona.  Bernick,  you  say  we  came  to  crush  you.  Then 
let  me  tell  you  what  he  is,  this  prodigal  son  whom  your 
moral  society  shrinks  from  as  if  he  were  plague-stricken. 
He  can  do  without  you  all;  he  has  gone  away. 

Bernick.     But  he  will  come  back. 

Lona.  He  will  never  come  back;  and  you  know  noth- 
ing.    He  has  gone  for  ever,  and  Dina  with  him. 

Bernick.     Gone  ?     And  Dina  with  him  ? 

Lona.     Yes,  as  his  wife,  without  clergy  or  wedding; 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  83 

that  is  how  he  strikes  your  society  in  the  face,  as  I  once — 
No  matter! 

Bernick.     Gone;    she  too  in  the  Indian  Girl 

Lona.  No;  he  dared  not  entrust  such  a  precious 
freight  to  those  scoundrels;  he  has  sailed  in  the  Olive 
Leaf 

Bernick.  Ah;  then  it  was — to  no  purpose — (calls 
into  his  room)  Krap — stop  the  Indian  Girl — she  mustn't 
sail  to-night 

Krap  (inside).  The  Indian  Girl  is  already  standing 
out  to  sea,  Consul. 

Bernick.     Too  late — and  all  for  nothing. 

Lona.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Bernick.  Nothing,  nothing — leave  me  alone,  you 
spirit  of  vengeance. 

Lona.  H'm!  Listen,  Bernick;  Johan  told  me  to  tell 
you  that  he  makes  you  a  present  of  the  good  name  he 
once  lent  you;    see,  I  hold  in  my  hand  your  letters 

Bernick.  You  have  them!  And  now — now  you  will 
— this  very  night  perhaps — when  the  procession 

Lona.  How  far  you  are  from  knowing  me  through 
and  through,  Karsten — see — I  tear  your  letters  to  shreds; 
now,  there  is  nothing  to  bear  witness  against  you — except 
your  own  conscience;  now  you  are  safe — be  happy  too — 
if  you  can 

Bernick.  Lona — why  did  you  not  do  this  before;  it 
is  too  late  now — you  have  spoilt  my  whole  life  now — I 
cannot  live  after  to-day 

Lona.     What  has  happened  ? 

Bernick.  Don't  ask  me!  Not  live!  Yes,  I  will — 
live,  live — work — I  have  bought  it  dearly  enough. 

Lona.     Karsten ! 

Hilmar  (enters  hurriedly  from  the  left).  No  one  to  be 
found;  all  away!  not  even  Betty! 


84  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Bernick.     What  is  it? 
Hilmar.     I  can't  tell  you 


Bernick.     Speak,  I  tell  you 

Hilmar.  Well  then — Olaf  has  run  away  in  the  Indian 
Girl 

Bernick.  Run  away — and  in  the  Indian  Girl — no, 
no 

Lona.  All,  yes — now  I  understand — he  went  through 
here  a  little  while  ago  and 

Bernick  (at  the  door  on  the  left).  Krap — stop  the 
Indian  Girl  at  any  cost! 

Krap.     Impossible,  Consul — she's  already  at  sea 

Bernick.     And  my  son  is  on  board. 

Krap.     What  ? 

Rummel.     Run  away;  impossible 

Sandstad.     They'll  send  him  back. 

Hilmar.  No,  no,  he  writes  that  he'll  hide  among  the 
cargo  until  they  are  fairly  out  to  sea. 

Bernick.     I  shall  never  see  him  again. 

Rummel.  Oh,  nonsense;  a  good  stout  ship,  newly 
repaired 

Vigeland.     — and  in  your  own  yard,  too,  Consul 

Bernick.  I  shall  never  see  him  again,  I  tell  you. — 
(Listens.)     What  is  that? 

Rummel.     Music.     The  procession  is  coming. 

Bernick.     I  cannot,  I  will  not  see  any  one. 

Rummel.  What  are  you  thinking  of?  It's  impos- 
sible. 

Sandstad.  Impossible,  Consul — the  scheme  is  not 
yet  firmly  established — think  how  much  you  have  at 
stake. 

Bernick.  What  does  it  all  matter  to  me  now? 
Whom  have  I  now  to  work  for? 

Lona.     Society,  brother-in-law,  society. 


PILLARS   OF  SOCIETY  85 

Rummel.     Yes,  very  true. 

Sandstad.  And  us  others;  you  won't  forget,  Con- 
sul, that 

Martha  {from  tlie  left).  Here  they  come;  but  Betty 
is  not  at  home 

Bernick.  Not  at  home?  There,  you  see,  Lona;  on 
an  evening  like  this;  no  support  either  in  joy  or  sor- 
row  

Rummel.  Up  with  the  curtains;  more  candles;  up 
with  all  the  curtains;  help  me,  Mr.  Sandstad! 


Bernick.  And  now  to  come  to  the  chief  point  in  my 
settlement  with  society  and  with  my  conscience.  Betty, 
collect  yourself  to  bear  what  is  coming. — It  has  been  said 
that  elements  of  evil  have  left  us  this  evening — ;  I  can 
add  what  you  do  not  know;  the  man  thus  alluded  to  did 
not  go  alone — with  him  went,  as  his  wife 

Lona.     Dina  Dorf! 

Rorlund.   What  ?    {Great  sensation  among  the  crowd.) 

Rorlund.     Fled? — run  away,  impossible! 

Bernick.  As  his  wife,  without  either  clergyman  or 
wedding  ceremony,  and  yet  I  tell  you  that  I  regard  this 
marriage  as  higher  than  many  another  among  us,  in 
which  all  forms  have  been  observed — and  I  will  add 
more — honour  to  that  man,  for  he  has  nobly  taken  upon 
himself  another's  sin — my  fellow  citizens,  I  will  get  clear 
of  the  lie — you  shall  know  all — fifteen  years  ago,  it  was 
I  who  sinned 

Mrs.  Bernick.     Oh,  Karsten,  thanks,  thanks. 

Lona.     At  last  you  have  found  your  true  self! 

{Astonished  whispering  among  the  crowd.) 

Bernick.  There;  now  we  are  on  a  fair  footing  with 
each    other;    now  we  shall  see    whether    fifteen    years* 


86  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

activity  can  wipe  out  a  youthful  aberration — let  him  who 
knows  himself  to  be  pure  cast  the  first  stone;  but  do  not 
decide  this  evening;  I  ask  every  one  of  you  to  go  home 
— to  collect  himself — away  with  all  this  show! — you  will 
feel  that  it  is  out  of  place  here 

Rorlund.  Assuredly  it  is — well,  I  thank  God — it 
would  have  been  a  sacrifice  in  vain — Yes,  gentlemen,  I 

think  we  had  better 

( Tlte  announcement  is  whispered  from  mouth  to  mouth; 
tlie  crowd  retires  noiselessly.) 

Bernick.     Betty,  this  was  a  heavy  blow  for  you. 

Mrs.  Bernick.  This  is  the  happiest  occasion  for 
fifteen  years. 

Bernick.     How  so  ?     Did  you ? 

Mrs.  Bernick.     I  knew  all. 

Bernick.     Knew ? 

Mrs.  Bernick.  The  evening  before  our  wedding-day. 
That  was  her  revenge. 

Bernick.     Knew — and  yet  said  nothing  ? 

Mrs.  Bernick.  Oh,  why  have  you  been  silent,  Kar- 
sten  ?  Why  have  you  never  thought  me  worthy  of  for- 
giving a  moment  of  aberration  ? 

Bernick.  Because  I  have  never  known  you  until  this 
evening.     But  now  let  him  come! 

Mrs.  Bernick.  Yes,  yes;  you  shall  have  him. — Mr. 
Krap — (whispers  to  him  in  the  background;  he  goes  out 
by  the  garden  door). 

Bernick.  Thanks,  Lona;  you  have  saved  what  is 
best  in  me. 

Lona.     What  else  did  I  intend  ? 

Bernick.     How  then  ?   not  hatred ; — not  revenge  ? 

Lona.     Old  love  does  not  rust. 

Bernick.     Lona! 

Lona.     Mona! 


PILLARS   OF   SOCIETY  87 

Bernick.  Oh,  how  little  has  a  pitiful  coward  like  me 
deserved 

Lona.  Yes,  if  we  women  always  asked  for  deserts, 
Karsten (Aune  and  Olaf  enter  from  the  garden.) 

Bernick.     Olaf! 

Olaf.     Father,  I'll  never 

Bernick.  Never  do  it  again?  Yes,  you  shall — but 
not  secretly — listen,  boy — In  future  you  shall  be  allowed 
to  be  yourself 

Olaf.     Not  a  pillar  of  society? 

Bernick.  No,  no;  yourself,  do  you  hear?  whatever 
may  happen.    And  you,  Aune 

Aune.     I  know  it,  Consul — I  am  dismissed 

Bernick.  We  will  not  part  company,  Aune — ;  for- 
give me 

Aune.     What?  the  ship  can't  get  away. 

Bernick.  Heaven  be  thanked  for  that;  and — forgive 
me — to-morrow  she  must  be  overhauled — perhaps  fresh 
repairs  may  be  necessary 

Aune.     Perhaps. 

Bernick.  Yes,  yes,  there  is  much  here  that  needs 
overhauling.     Good-night,  Aune! 

Aune.     Good-night,  Consul — and  thank  you  heartily. 

(Goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Mrs.  Bernick.     Now  they  are  all  gone. 

Bernick.  And  we  are  alone.  All  the  lights  are  out 
in  the  windows 

Mrs.  Bernick.     Would  you  have  them  lighted  again  ? 

Bernick.  Not  for  all  the  world.  Oh,  come  nearer, 
closer  around  me — I  have  grown  young  again!  Come, 
Betty — come,  Olaf — and  you,  Martha — it  seems  as 
though  I  had  never  seen  you  during  all  these  years — our 
society  is  a  society  of  bachelor-souls — we  have  no  eyes  for 


88  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

womanhood — and  you,  Lona — it  is  settled,  is  it  not?— 
you  won't  leave  us 

Lona.  No;  how  could  I  think  of  going  away  and 
leaving  you  young  people,  just  beginning  life?  Am  I 
not  your  foster  mother?  You  and  I,  Martha,  we  are 
the  two  old  aunts — what  are  you  looking  at  ? 

Martha.  How  the  sky  is  clearing — ;  how  the  clouds 
are  lifting — the  Olive  Leaf  has  fortune  with  it. 

Lona.     And  happiness  on  board 

Bernick.  And  we,  we  have  a  long,  earnest  day  of 
work  before  us — I  most  of  all — but  let  it  come — gather 
close  around  me,  you  strong  and  true  women — one  thing 
I  have  learnt  to-day:  it  is  you  women  who  are  the  pillars 
of  society 

Lona.  Then  you  have  learnt  a  poor  wisdom,  brother- 
in-law.  (Grasps  his  hand.) — fhe  spirits  of  Truth  and 
Freedom — these  are  the  Pillar*  of  Society. 


A  DOLL'S  HOUSE 


NOTES  FOR  THE  MODERN  TRAGEDY 

Rome,  19.  10,  78. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  spiritual  law,  two  kinds  of 
conscience,  one  in  man  and  another,  altogether  different, 
in  woman.  They  do  not  understand  each  other;  but  in 
practical  life  the  woman  is  judged  by  man's  law,  as 
though  she  were  not  a  woman  but  a  man. 

The  wife  in  the  play  ends  by  having  no  idea  of  what  is 
right  or  wrong;  natural  feeling  on  the  one  hand  and  be- 
lief in  authority  on  the  other  have  altogether  bewildered 
her. 

A  woman  cannot  be  herself  in  the  society  of  the  pres- 
ent day,  which  is  an  exclusively  masculine  society,  with 
laws  framed  by  men  and  with  a  judicial  system  that 
judges  feminine  conduct  from  a  masculine  point  of  view. 

She  has  committed  forgery,  and  she  is  proud  of  it;  for 
she  did  it  out  of  love  for  her  husband,  to  save  his  life. 
But  this  husband  with  his  commonplace  principles  of 
honour  is  on  the  side  of  the  law  and  regards  the  question 
with  masculine  eyes. 

Spiritual  conflicts.  Oppressed  and  bewildered  by  the 
belief  in  authority,  she  loses  faith  in  her  moral  right  and 
ability  to  bring  up  her  children.  Bitterness.  A  mother 
in  modern  society,  like  certain  insects  who  go  away  and 
die  when  she  has  done  her  duty  in  the  propagation  of*  the 
race.1  Love  of  life,  of  home,  of  husband  and  children 
and  family.  Here  and  there  a  womanly  shaking-off  of 
her  thoughts.     Sudden  return  of  anxiety  and  terror.    She 

1  The  sentence  is  elliptical  in  the  original. 
91 


92  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

must  bear  it  all  alone.  The  catastrophe  approaches,  in- 
exorably, inevitably.  Despair,  conflict  and  destruction. 
(Krogstad  has  acted  dishonourably  and  thereby  be- 
come well-to-do;  now  his  prosperity  does  not  help  him, 
he  cannot  recover  his  honour.) 

PERSONS 

Stenborg,  a  Government  clerk. 

Nora,  his  wife. 

Miss  (Mrs.)  Lind  (,  a  widow). 

Attorney  Krogstad. 

Karen,  nurse  at  the  Stenborgs'. 

A  Parlour-Maid  at  the  Stenborgs'. 

A  Porter. 

The  Stenborgs>'  three  little  children. 

Doctor  Hank. 


SCENARIO 


First  Act 


A  room  comfortably,  but  not  showily,  furnished.  In 
the  back,  on  the  right,  a  door  leads  to  the  hall;  on  the 
left  another  door  leads  to  the  room  or  office  of  the  master 
of  the  house,  which  can  be  seen  when  the  door  is  opened. 
A  fire  in  the  stove.     Winter  day. 

She  enters  from  the  back,  humming  gaily;  she  is  in 
outdoor  dress  and  carries  several  parcels,  has  been  shop- 
ping. As  she  opens  the  door,  a  Porter  is  seen  in  the  hall, 
carrying  a  Christmas-tree.  She:  Put  it  down  there  for 
the  present.  (Taking  out  her  purse)  How  much  ? 
Porter:    Fifty  ore.     She:    Here  is  a  crown.     No,  keep 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE  93 

the  change.  The  Porter  thanks  her  and  goes.  She  con- 
tinues humming  and  smiling  with  quiet  glee  as  she 
opens  several  of  the  parcels  she  has  brought.  Calls  off, 
is  he  at  home  ?  Yes !  At  first,  conversation  through  the 
closed  door;  then  he  opens  it  and  goes  on  talking  to  her 
while  continuing  to  work  most  of  the  time,  standing  at 
his  desk.  There  is  a  ring  at  the  hall-door;  he  does 
not  want  to  be  disturbed;  shuts  himself  in.  The  maid 
opens  the  door  to  her  mistress's  friend,  just  arrived  in 
town.  Happy  surprise.  Mutual  explanation  of  the  posi- 
tion of  affairs.  He  has  received  the  post  of  manager 
in  the  new  joint-stock  bank  and  is  to  enter  on  his  duties 
at  the  New  Year;  all  financial  worries  are  at  an  end. 
The  friend  has  come  to  town  to  look  for  some  small 
employment  in  an  office  or  whatever  may  present  itself. 
Mrs.  Stenborg  gives  her  good  hopes,  is  certain  that  all 
will  turn  out  well.  The  maid  opens  the  front-door  to  the 
debt-collector.  Mrs.  Stenborg  terrified;  they  exchange 
a  few  words;  he  is  shown  into  the  office.  Mrs.  Stenborg 
and  her  friend;  the  circumstances  of  the  debt-collector 
are  touched  upon.  Stenborg  enters  in  his  overcoat;  has 
sent  the  collector  out  the  other  way.  Conversation  about 
the  friend's  affairs;  hesitation  on  his  part.  He  and  the 
friend  go  out;  his  wife  follows  them  into  the  hall;  the 
Nurse  enters  with  the  children.  Mother  and  children 
play.  The  collector  enters.  Mrs.  Stenborg  sends  the 
children  out  to  the  left.  Great  scene  between  her  and 
him.  He  goes.  Stenborg  enters;  has  met  him  on  the 
stairs;  displeased;  wants  to  know  what  he  came  back 
for  ?  Her  support  ?  No  intrigues.  His  wife  cautiously 
tries  to  pump  him.  Strict  legal  answers.  Exit  to  his 
room.  She  (repeating  her  words  when  the  collector 
went  out)  But  that's  impossible.  Why,  I  did  it  from 
love! 


94  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

SCENARIO 

Second  Act 

The  last  day  of  the  year.  Midday.  Nora  and  the 
old  Nurse.  Nora,  impelled  by  uneasiness,  is  putting  on 
her  things  to  go  out.  Anxious  random  questions  of  one 
kind  and  another  give  a  hint  that  thoughts  of  death  are 
in  her  mind.  Tries  to  banish  these  thoughts,  to  turn  it 
off,  hopes  that  something  or  other  may  intervene.  But 
what  ?  The  Nurse  goes  off  to  the  left. — Stenborg  enters 
from  his  room.  Short  dialogue  between  him  and  Nora. 
— The  Nurse  re-enters,  looking  for  Nora;  the  youngest 
child  is  crying.  Annoyance  and  questioning  on  Sten- 
borg's  part;  exit  the  Nurse;  Stenborg  is  going  in  to 
the  children. — Doctor  Hank  enters.  Scene  between  him 
and  Stenborg. — Nora  soon  re-enters;  she  has  turned 
back;  anxiety  has  driven  her  home  again.  Scene  be- 
tween her,  the  Doctor  and  Stenborg.  Stenborg  goes  into 
his  room. — Scene  between  Nora  and  the  Doctor.  The 
Doctor  goes  out. — Nora  alone. — Mrs.  Linde  enters. 
Scene  between  her  and  Nora. — Krogstad  enters.  Short 
scene  between  him,  Mrs.  Linde  and  Nora.  Mrs.  Linde 
goes  in  to  the  children. — Scene  between  Krogstad  and 
Nora. — she  entreats  and  implores  him  for  the  sake  of  her 
little  children;  in  vain.  Krogstad  goes  out.  The  letter 
is  seen  to  fall  from  outside  into  the  letter-box. — Mrs. 
Linde  re-enters  after  a  short  pause.  Scene  between  her 
and  Nora.  Half  confession.  Mrs.  Linde  goes  out. — ■ 
Nora  alone. — Stenborg  enters.  Scene  between  him  and 
Nora.  He  wants  to  empty  the  letter-box.  Entreaties, 
jests,  half  playful  persuasion.  He  promises  to  let  busi- 
ness wait  till  after  New  Year's  Day;  but  at  12  o'clock 
midnight — !     Exit.     Nora  alone.     Nora  (looking  at  th« 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE  95 

clock:)  It  is  five  o'clock.  Five; — seven  hours  till  mid- 
night. Twenty-four  hours  till  the  next  midnight. 
Twenty-four  and  seven — thirty-one.  Thirty-one  hours 
to  live. 


Third  Act 


(A  muffled  sound  of  dance  music  is  heard  from  the 
floor  above.  A  lighted  lamp  on  the  table.  Mrs.  Linde 
sits  in  an  armchair  and  absently  turns  the  pages  of  a 
book,  tries  to  read,  but  seems  unable  to  fix  her  attention; 
once  or  twice  she  looks  at  her  watch.  Nora  comes  down 
from  the  dance;  uneasiness  has  driven  her;  surprise  at 
finding  Mrs.  Linde,  who  pretends  that  she  wanted  to  see 
Nora  in  her  costume.  Helmer,  displeased  at  her  going 
away,  comes  to  fetch  her  back.  The  Doctor  also  enters, 
but  to  say  good-bye.  Meanwhile  Mrs.  Linde  has  gone 
into  the  side  room  on  the  right.  Scene  between  the 
Doctor,  Helmer  and  Nora.  He  is  going  to  bed,  he  says, 
never  to  get  up  again;  they  are  not  to  come  and  see 
him;  there  is  ugliness  about  a  death-bed.  He  goes  out. 
Helmer  goes  upstairs  again  with  Nora,  after  the  latter 
has  exchanged  a  few  words  of  farewell  with  Mrs.  Linde. 
Mrs.  Linde  alone.  Then  Krogstad.  Scene  and  expla- 
nation between  them.  Both  go  out.  Nora  and  the 
children.  Then  she  alone.  Then  Helmer.  He  takes 
the  letters  out  of  the  letter-box.  Short  scene;  good- 
night; he  goes  into  his  room.  Nora  in  despair  pre- 
pares for  the  final  step;  is  already  at  the  door  when 
Helmer  enters  with  the  open  letter  in  his  hand.  Great 
scene.  A  ring.  Letter  to  Nora  from  Krogstad.  Final 
scene.     Divorce.     Nora  leaves  the  house. 


96  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 


FIRST  ACT 

(A  room,  comfortably  and  tastefully,  but  not  expensively, 
furnished.  In  the  back,  on  the  rigid,  a  door  leads  to 
the  hall;  on  the  left  another  door  leads  to  Stenborg's 
study.  In  the  middle  of  the  left  wall  a  door  to  the 
nursery;  in  front  on  the  same  side,  a  sofa,  table  and- 
armchairs.  In  the  right  wall,  somewhat  to  the  back,  a 
door,  and,  further  forward,  a  white  porcelain  stove;  in 
front  of  it  a  couple  of  armchairs  and  a  rocking-chair. 
It  is  a  winter  day.     Carpet.      A  fire  in  the  stove. 

{A  bell  rings  in  the  hall  outside.  Presently  the  outer  door 
of  the  fiat  is  heard  to  open.  Then  Mrs.  Stenborg 
enters,  humming  gaily.  "She  is  in  outdoor  dress,  and 
carries  several  parcels,  which  she  lays  on.  a  chair  on 
the  right.  As  she  opens  the  door,  a  Porter  is  seen 
in  the  hall,  carrying  a  Christmas-tree  and  a  basket, 
which  he  gives  to  the  Maid-servant  who  has  opened 
the  door.) 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (to  the  Maid).     Hide  the  Christmas- 
tree  carefully,  Christina;    the  children  must  on  no  ac- 
count see  it  before  to-morrow.     (To  the  Porter,  taking 
out  her  purse.)     How  much  ? 
Porter.     Fifty  ore. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     There  is  a  crown.     No,  keep  the 
change. 

( The  Porter  thanks  her  and  goes.     Mrs.  Stenborg 
shuts  the  door.     She  continues  humming  and  smil- 
ing in  quiet  glee  as  she  takes  off  her  outdoor  things.) 
Mrs.  Stenborg  (listening  at  her  husband's  door).    Yes; 
he  is  at  home.  (Begins  humming  again.) 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  97 

Stenborg  (within) .     Is  that  my  lark  twittering  there  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (busy  opening  some  of  her  parcels). 
Yes,  it  is. 

Stenborg.     Is  it  the  squirrel  frisking  around  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Yes. 

Stenborg.     When  did  the  squirrel  get  home? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Just  this  minute.  Come  here, 
Thorvald,  and  see  what  I've  been  buying. 

Stenborg.  Don't  interrupt  me.  (A  little  later  he 
opens  the  door  and  looks  in,  pen  in  hand.)  Buying,  did 
you  say?  What!  All  that?  Has  my  little  spendthrift 
been  making  the  money  fly  again  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Why,  Thorvald,  surely  we  can 
afford  to  launch  out  a  little  now.  It's  the  first  Christ- 
mas we  haven't  had  to  pinch. 

Stenborg.  Come,  come;  we  can't  afford  to  squander 
money. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Oh  yes,  Thorvald,  do  let  us  squan- 
der a  little  now!  You  know  you'll  soon  be  earning  heaps 
of  money. 

Stenborg.  Yes,  from  New  Year's  Day.  But  there's 
a  whole  quarter  before  my  first  salary  is  due. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Never  mind;  we  can  borrow  in  the 
meantime. 

Stenborg.  Nora!  (He  enters  the  room.)  You  know 
my  principles  on  these  points.  No  debts!  No  borrow- 
ing! That  must  be  understood  between  us.  (He  puts 
his  arm  round  her.)  It's  a  sweet  little  lark,  but  it  gets 
through  a  lot  of  money.  No  one  would  believe  how 
much  it  costs  a  man  to  keep  such  a  little  bird  as  you. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  For  shame !  How  can  you  say  so  ? 
Why,  I  save  as  much  as  ever  I  can. 

Stenborg  (laughing).  Very  true — as  much  as  you 
can — but  that's  precisely  nothing. 


98  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (hums  and  smiles  with  covert  glee). 
H'm!  If  you  only  knew,  Thorvald,  what  expenses  we 
larks  and  squirrels  have! 

Stenborg.  You're  a  strange  little  being,  Nora!  Sit- 
ting here  often  and  often  till  late  at  night,  slaving  away 
at  your  copyist's  work,  to  earn  the  few  crowns  you  can 
get  for  it;  and  then — at  the  same  time — the  money  often 
seems  to  slip  through  your  fingers,  without  your  knowing 
what  becomes  of  it.  But  that's  going  to  come  to  an  end, 
Nora.  The  copying,  I  mean.  That  sort  of  thing  is  not 
good  for  merry  little  larks;  and  now  there  is  no  need  of 
it  either. 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (clapping  her  hands).  No,  there 
isn't,  Thorvald,  is  there?  Oh,  how  delightful  it  is  to 
think  of!  (Takes  his  arm.)  And  now  I'll  tell  you  how 
I  think  we  ought  to  manage,  Thorvald.  As  soon  as 
Christmas  is  over —  (The  hall-door  bell  rings.)  Ouf, 
there's  a  ring!  That's  somebody  come  to  call.  How 
tiresome ! 

Stenborg.  I'm  "not  at  home"  to  callers;  remember 
that.  (He  goes  into  his  study  and  shuts  the  door.) 

(Mrs.  Stenborg  arranges  the  room.     The  Maid- 
servant opens  tlie  door  to  the  hall.) 

Maid-Servant.     A  lady  to  see  you,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Please  come  in. 

(Miss  [Mrs.]  Lind,  in  travelling  costume,  comes  into 

the  room.      The  Maid  shuts  the  door.) 
[(TJie  bell  rings  again.     Brief  exchange  of  words  with 
the  Doctor.)] 

Miss  [Mrs.]  Lind  (embarrassed  and  hesitating).  How 
do  you  do,  Nora? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     How  do  you  do  ? 

Miss  [Mrs.]  Lind.     I  see  you  don't  recognise  m«„ 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE  99 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  No — oh  yes! — I  believe —  (Sud- 
denly brightening.)     What,  Christina!     Is  it  really  you? 

Miss  Lind.     Yes;   really  I! 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Christina!  And  to  think  I  didn't 
know  you!  But  how  could  I —  How  changed  you  are, 
Christina! 

Miss  Lind.     Yes,  no  doubt.     In  eight  long  years 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Is  it  really  so  long  since  we  met? 
Yes,  so  it  is.  Oh,  it  has  been  a  happy  time,  I  can  tell 
you!     And  now  you  have  come  to  town? 

Miss  Lind.     I  arrived  this  morning. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  To  have  a  merry  Christmas,  of 
course.  Oh,  how  delightful!  Yes,  we  will  have  a  merry 
Christmas.  Do  take  your  things  off.  Aren't  you  frozen  ? 
(Helping  her.)  There;  now  we'll  sit  cosily  by  the  fire. 
No,  you  take  the  armchair;  I  shall  sit  in  this  rocking- 
chair.  (Seizes  her  hands.)  Yes,  now  I  can  see  the  dear 
old  face  again.  It  was  only  at  the  first  glance —  But 
you're  a  little  paler,  and  perhaps  a  little  thinner. 

Mrs.  Lind.     And  much,  much  older,  Nora! 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Yes,  perhaps  a  little  older — not 
much — ever  so  little.  (She  suddenly  checks  herself; 
seriously.)  Oh,  what  a  thoughtless  wretch  I  am!  Here 
I  sit  chattering  on,  and —  Dear,  dear  Christina,  can 
you  forgive  me! 

Mrs.  Lind.     What  do  you  mean,  Nora? 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (softly).  Poor  Christina!  I  forgot: 
you  are  a  widow. 

Mrs.  Lind.    Yes;    my  husband  died  three  years  ago. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  I  know,  I  know;  I  saw  it  in  the 
papers.  Oh,  believe  me,  Christina,  I  did  mean  to  write 
to  you;  but  I  kept  putting  it  off,  and  something  always 
came  in  the  way. 

Mrs.  Lind.     I  can  quite  understand  that,  Nora  dear. 


100  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  No,  Christina;  it  was  horrid  of  me. 
Oh,  you  poor  darling!  how  much  you  must  have  gone 
through! — And  he  left  you  nothing? 

Mrs.  Lind.     Nothing. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     And  no  children? 

Mrs.  Lind.     None. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Nothing,  nothing  at  all  ? 

Mrs.  Lind.  Not  even  a  sorrow  or  a  longing  to  dwell 
upon. 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (looking  ;r  her  incredulously).  My 
dear  Christina,  how  is  thai  possible? 

Mrs.  Lind  (smiling  sadly  end  stroking  her  hair).  Oh, 
it  happens  so  sometimes?  Nora. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  $o  utterly  alone!  How  dreadful 
that  must  be!  I  hav*  three  of  the  loveliest  children.  I 
can't  show  them  to  you  just  now;  they're  out  with  their 
nurse.     But  now  ytt  must  tell  me  everything. 

Mrs.  Lind.     Kto,  no;  I  want  you  to  tell  me 

Mrs.  StenSOHg.  No,  you  must  begin;  I  won't  oe 
egotistical  to-d&y.  To-day  I'll  think  only  of  you.  Oh! 
but  I  must  tell  you  one  thing — perhaps  you've  heard  of 
our  great  stroke  of  fortune? 

Mrs.  Lind.     No.     What  is  it? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Only  think!  my  husband  has  been 
made  manager  of  the  Joint  Stock  Bank. 

Mrs.  Lind.     Your  husband!     Oh,  how  fortunate! 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Yes;  isn't  it?  Now  he'll  leave  that 
tiresome  Government  office,  where  they  pay  him  so 
badly.  For  he  is  to  enter  on  his  new  position  at  the  New 
Year,  and  then  he'll  have  a  large  salary7,  and  percentages. 
In  future  we  shall  be  able  to  live  quite  differently — just 
as  we  please,  in  fact.  Oh,  Christina,  how  happy  I  am! 
It's  delightful  to  have  lots  of  money,  and  no  need  to 
worry  about  things,  isn't  it? 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  101 

Mrs.  Lind.  Yes;  at  any  rate  it  must  be  delightful  to 
have  what  you  need. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  No,  not  only  what  you  need,  but 
heaps  of  money — heaps! 

Mrs.  Lind  (smiling).  Nora,  Nora,  haven't  you 
learnt  reason  yet  ?  In  our  schooldays  you  were  a  shock- 
ing little  spendthrift. 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (quietly  smiling).  Yes;  that's  what 
Thorvald  says  I  am  still.  (Holding  up  her  forefinger.) 
But  "  Nora,  Nora "  is  not  so  silly  as  you  all  think.  Oh ! 
we  haven't  had  the  chance  of  being  spendthrifts.  We 
have  both  had  to  work. 

Mrs.  Lind.     You  too? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Yes,  light  work:  copying,  and  em- 
broidery, and  things  of  that  sort.  But  not  so  much  as  he 
of  course.  In  the  first  year  after  our  marriage  he  over- 
worked himself  terribly.  Then  the  doctors  declared  he 
must  go  to  the  South. 

Mrs.  Lind.  You  spent  a  whole  year  in  Italy,  didn't 
you  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  It  was  a  wonderful,  delicious  jour- 
ney, you  may  imagine!  And  it  saved  Thorvald's  life. 
But  it  cost  a  frightful  lot  of  money,  Christina. 

Mrs.  Lind.     So  I  should  think. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Twelve  hundred  dollars!  Isn't  that 
a  lot  of  money? 

Mrs.  Lind.     How  lucky  you  had  the  money  to  spend. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  We  got  it  from  father,  you  must 
know. 

Mrs.  Lind.  Ah,  I  see.  He  died  just  about  that  time, 
didn't  he  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Yes,  Christina,  just  then.  And 
only  think!  I  couldn't  go  and  nurse  him!  I  had  to 
stay  here  with  Thorvald,  of  course;  he  was  ill  too.     Dear, 


102  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

good  father!  I  never  saw  him  again,  Christina.  Oh! 
that's  the  hardest  thing  I  have  had  to  bear  since  my 
marriage. 

Mrs.  Lind.     But  then  you  went  to  Italy  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Yes;  you  see,  we  had  the  money, 
and  the  doctors  said  we  must  lose  no  time.  We  started 
three  weeks  later. 

Mrs.  Lind.  And  your  husband  came  back  com- 
pletely cured  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Sound  as  a  bell.  [Mrs.  Linde. 
But  wasn't  that  the  doctor — ?]  He  has  never  had  an 
hour's  illness  since  that  time.  Only  he  has  to  be  care- 
ful, the  doctor  says,  and  avoid  any  kind  of  excitement. 
And  I  shall  take  good  care  of  that.  Oh,  it  will  be  so  easy 
now.  He  shall  have  no  anxiety  and  no  annoyance.  I 
and  the  children  will  make  things  so  comfortable  for 
him.  (Jumps  up  and  claps  her  hands.)  Oh,  Christina, 
Christina,  what  a  wonderful  thing  it  is  to  live  and  to  be 
happy! —  Oh,  but  it's  really  too  horrid  of  me!  Here 
am  I  talking  about  nothing  but  my  own  concerns.  (Seats 
herself  upon  a  footstool  close  to  Christina,  and  seizes  her 
hands.)  Oh,  don't  be  angry  with  me! —  Now  tell  me, 
is  it  really  true  that  you  didn't  love  your  husband? 
What  made  you  marry  him,  then  ? 

Mrs.  Lind.  My  old  mother  was  still  alive,  you  see, 
bedridden  and  helpless,  and  then  I  had  my  two  younger 
brothers  to  think  of.  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  right  for 
me  to  refuse  him. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Perhaps  it  wouldn't  have  been.  I 
suppose  he  was  rich  then  ? 

Mrs.  Lind.  Very  well  off,  I  believe.  But  his  busi- 
ness was  uncertain.  It  fell  to  pieces  at  his  death,  and 
there  was  nothing  left. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     And  then ? 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  103 

Mrs.  Lind.  Then  I  had  to  fight  my  way  by  keeping 
a  shop,  a  little  school,  anything  I  could  turn  my  hand  to. 
My  whole  life  since  that  time  has  been  one  long,  weary 
struggle.  My  old  mother  no  longer  needs  anything,  for 
she  is  at  rest,  as  perhaps  you  know.  But  my  heaviest 
years  for  the  two  boys  are  still  to  come;  they  are  now 
getting  into  the  higher  classes;  their  school  fees  and  all 
their  requirements  are  increasing.  (Stands  up  restlessly.) 
It  can't  be  done  any  longer  in  that  out-of-the-way  corner, 
Nora!  That  is  why  I  came  here.  They  say  that  here 
things  are  better  than  they  used  to  be  for  us  women.  I 
must  try  to  get  some  office  work — some  settled  employ- 
ment  

Mrs.  Stenborg.  But,  Christina,  that's  such  drudg- 
ery, and  you  look  worn  out  already.  It  would  be  ever 
so  much  better  for  you  to  go  to  some  watering-place  and 
rest. 

Mrs.  Lind.  I  have  no  father  to  pay  my  travelling 
expenses,  Nora! 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (rising) .    Oh,  don't  be  vexed  with  me. 

Mrs.  Lind.  My  dear  Nora,  don't  you  be  vexed  with 
me.  The  worst  of  a  position  like  mine  is  that  it  makes 
one  so  bitte  •.  You  become  selfish;  you  have  to  be 
always  on  the  strain.  When  I  heard  of  the  happy  change 
in  your  fortunes — can  you  believe  it  ? — I  was  glad  not  for 
your  s  ke,  but  for  my  own. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  How  do  you  mean?  Ah,  I  see! 
You  think  my  husband  can  perhaps  do  something  for 
you. 

Mrs.  Lind.     Yes;  I  thought  so. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  And  so  he  shall,  Christina.  I'm 
sure  he  will.  I'll  keep  at  him,  you  see.  He  shan't  have 
any  peace  until  he  has  hit  upon  something  or  other. 

Mrs.  Lind.     How  good  of  you,  Nora,  to  stand  by  me 


104  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

so  warmly!  Doubly  good  in  you,  who  know  so  little  of 
the  troubles  and  burdens  of  life. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     I?     I  know  so  little  of ? 

Mrs.  Lind  (smiling).  Oh,  well — a  little  copying, 
and  so  forth. — You're  a  child,  Nora. 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (tosses  her  head  and  paces  the  room). 
Oh,  come,  you  mustn't  be  so  patronising! 

Mrs.  Lind.     No? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  You're  like  the  rest.  You  all  think 
there's  nothing  serious  about  me 

Mrs.  Lind.     Well,  well 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  You  think  I've  had  no  troubles  in 
this  world. 

Mrs.  Lind.  My  dear  Nora,  you've  just  told  me  all 
your  troubles. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Those  trifles!  (Softly.)  I  haven't 
told  you  the  great  thing. 

Mrs.  Lind.     The  great  thing?     What  do  you  mean? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  You  look  down  upon  me.  You  are 
proud  of  having  worked  so  hard  and  so  long  for  your  old 
mother. 

Mrs.  Lind.  I'm  sure  I  don't  look  down  upon  you; 
but  it's  true  I  am  proud  and  glad  when  I  remember  that 
I  was  able  to  keep  my  mother's  last  days  free  from  care. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  And  you  will  be  both  proud  and 
glad  too  when  once  you  have  got  your  brothers  into  a 
good  position. 

Mrs.  Lind.     Have  I  not  the  right  to  be  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Yes  indeed.  But  now  let  me  tell 
you,  Christina — I,  too,  have  something  to  be  proud  and 
glad  of. 

Mrs.  Lind.     No  doubt; — but  what  do  you  mean? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Hush!     Not  so  loud.     Thorvald  is 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  105 

in  there.  He  mustn't  for  the  world —  No  one  must 
know  about  it,  Christina — no  one  but  you. 

Mrs.  Lind.     Why,  what  can  it  be? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Come  over  here.  {Takes  her  over 
to  the  stove.)  I,  too,  have  something  to  be  proud  and 
glad  of.     I  saved  my  husband's  life. 

Mrs.  Lind.     Saved  his  life? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  I  told  you  about  our  going  to  Italy. 
Thorvald  would  have  died  but  for  that. 

Mrs.  Lind.  Well — and  your  father  gave  you  the 
money. 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (smiling).  Yes,  so  Thorvald  and 
everyone  believes;  but 

Mrs.  Lind.     But ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Father  didn't  give  us  one  penny. 
It  was  I  that  found  the  money. 

Mrs.  Lind.     You  ?     All  that  money  ? 

Mrs.  Steneorg.  Twelve  hundred  dollars.  What  do 
you  say  to  that? 

Mrs.  Lind.  My  dear  Nora,  how  did  you  manage  it  ? 
Did  you  win  it  in  the  lottery? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     No,  indeed  I  didn't. 

Mrs.  Lind.     Then  where  ever  did  you  get  it  from  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (smiling  and  humming  gaily).  H'm; 
tra-la-la-la! 

Mrs.  Lind.     Of  course  you  couldn't  borrow  it. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     No?     Why  not? 

Mrs.  Lind.  Why,  a  wife  can't  borrow  without  her 
husband's  consent. 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (tossing  her  head) .  Oh,  when  one  has 
some  idea  of  business — and  knows  how  to  set  about 
things 

Mrs.  Lind.     But,  Nora,  I  don't  understand 


Mrs.  Stenborg.     Well,  you  needn't.     I  never  said  I 


106  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

borrowed  the  money.  There  are  many  ways  I  may  have 
got  it.     That's  beside  the  point,  you  see.     But 

Mrs.  Lind.  Listen  to  me,  Nora  dear:  haven't  you 
been  a  little  rash? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Is  it  rash  to  save  one's  husband's 
life  ? 

Mrs.  Lind.     No,  but  without  his  knowledge 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  But  it  would  have  been  fatal  for 
him  to  know!  He  wasn't  even  to  suspect  how  ill  he  was. 
The  doctors  came  to  me  privately  and  told  me  his  life 
was  in  danger — that  nothing  could  save  him  but  a  jour- 
ney to  the  South.  Do  you  think  I  didn't  try  diplomacy 
first?  I  told  him  how  I  longed  to  have  a  trip  abroad, 
like  other  young  wives;  and  then  I  hinted  that  he  could 
borrow  the  money.  But  then,  Christina,  he  got  almost 
angry  with  me.  He  said  I  was  frivolous  and  understood 
nothing  at  all  about  serious  matters  and  that  it  was  his 
duty  as  a  husband  not  to  yield  to  my  whims  and  fancies 
— so  I  think  he  called  them.  Well,  I  had  to  save  him, 
you  see;    and  then  I  found  the  way  to  do  it. 

Mrs.  Lind.  And  was  there  never  any  explanation  be- 
tween him  and  your  father? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  No,  never.  Father  died  at  that  very 
time;  I  thought  of  telling  him  all  about  it  and  coaching 
him  in  what  to  say;  but  as  he  lay  ill — unhappily,  it  wasn't 
necessary. 

Mrs.  Lind.  And  you  have  never  confessed  to  your 
husband  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Good  heavens!  What  can  you  be 
thinking  of?  Tell  him,  when  he  has  such  a  loathing  of 
debt!  No,  this  thing  is  my  grand  secret,  Christina.  Oh, 
you  may  believe  it  has  been  no  joke  to  meet  my  engage- 
ments punctually.  You  must  know  that  in  business 
there  are  things  called  instalments,  and  quarterly  inter- 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  107 

est,  that  are  terribly  hard  to  provide  for.  So  I've  had  to 
pinch  a  little,  wherever  I  could.  I  couldn't  save  out  of 
the  housekeeping,  for  of  course  Thorvald  had  to  live 
well.  And  I  couldn't  let  the  children  go  about  badly 
dressed;  all  I  got  for  them,  I  spent  on  them,  the  blessed 
darlings! 

Mrs.  Lind.  So  it  had  to  come  out  of  your  own 
pocket-money,  Nora? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Yes,  of  course.  After  all,  the  whole 
thing  was  my  doing;  so  it  was  my  finery  and  my  amuse- 
ments that  had  to  suffer.  When  Thorvald  gave  me 
money  for  clothes,  and  so  on,  I  never  spent  more  than 
half  of  it;  I  always  bought  the  simplest  things.  Oh,  it 
was  often  very  hard,  Christina  dear;  for  it's  nice  to  be 
beautifully  dressed.  (Smiling.)  And  with  all  that  he 
calls  me  a  spendthrift,  and  sa}  s  the  money  seems  to  melt 
away  in  my  hands. 

Mrs.  Linde.  How  much  have  you  been  able  to  pay 
off? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Well,  I  can't  precisely  say.  It's 
difficult,  ^o  keep  that  sort  of  business  clear.  But  it  doesn't 
matter  much  now.  There  will  be  so  many  resources  open 
to  me  now;  for  we  are  going  to  live  quite  differently  from 
the  way  we  have  been  doing.  Oh,  Christina,  how  glo- 
rious it  is  to  think  of!  Free  from  all  anxiety!  Free, 
quite  free.  To  be  able  to  play  and  romp  about  with  the 
children;  to  have  things  tasteful  and  pretty  in  the  house. 
And  then  the  spring  will  soon  be  here,  with  the  great  blue 
sky.  Perhaps  then  we  shall  be  able  to  travel,  on  rail- 
ways and  great  steamships,  and  see  foreign  countries 
again.  The  first  time  I  saw  so  little,  for  I  was  so  anxious 
about  Thorvald  then.  Oh,  what  a  wonderful  thing  it  is 
to  live  and  to  be  happy!  And  you  shall  be  happy  too, 
Christina;   as  happy  as  you  can  be,  poor  dear,  without 


108  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

either  husband   or   children —     (A    bell  rings  outside.) 
Who  can  that  be? 

Mrs.  Linde  (rising).     Perhaps  I  had  better  go. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  No;  do  stay.  It's  sure  to  be  some- 
one who  wants  to  see  Thorvald;  he  won't  come  through 
here. 

Maid-Servant  (in  the  doorivay).  If  you  please, 
ma'am,  Mr.  Krogstad  insists  on  seeing  Mr.  Stenborg ■ 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (springing  up).     My  husband ! 

Mrs.  Linde  (starts).     Who  is  it? 

Maid.     But  I  didn't  know,  as  the  Doctor  is  in  there 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (in  the  doorioay).  What  do  you  want 
to  see  my  husband  about? 

Krogstad  (in  the  hall).  Only  about  things  that  are 
of  no  interest  to  anyone  else.  (Seeing  Mrs.  Linde.) 
But — surely  that  can't  be d 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Mrs.  Linde — from  the  west  coun- 
try. Well,  go  into  my  husband's  room;  I  dare  say  he 
can  see  you.  (To  the  maid.)  Open  the  door  for  Mr. 
Krogstad.  (Shuts  the  door  into  the  liall  and  goes  back  to 
Mrs.  Linde.)     Do  you  know  that  man,  Christina? 

Mrs.  Linde.  I  used  to  know  him — before  I  was  mar* 
ried.     He  was  in  a  lawyer's  office  in  our  town. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Yes,  so  he  was. 

Mrs.  Linde.     How  he  has  changed! 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     I  believe  his  marriage  was  unhappy. 

Mrs.  Linde.     And  he  is  a  widower  now? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     With  a  lot  of  children. 

Mrs.  Linde.  And  his  business  is  not  of  the  most 
creditable,  they  say? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  No,  they  say  it  isn't.  But  don't  let 
us  think  of  business.     It's  so  tiresome. 

(Doctor  Hank  comes  out  of  Stenborg's  room.) 

The  Doctor   (still  in  the  doorway).     No,  no;    I'd 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE  109 

rather  go;  I'll  have  a  chat  with  your  wife.  (Shuts  the 
door  and  sees  Mrs.  Linde.)     Ah,  I  beg  your  pardon 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (introduces  them).  Doctor  Hank — 
Mrs.  Linde. 

Hank.  Oh,  indeed?  Your  old  friend — or  rather, 
your  friend  of  old  days.  I  think  I  saw  you  as  I  came  in, 
Mrs.  Linde.  And  now  you've  come  up  for  Christmas  ? 
Quite  right,  too.  One  ought  to  enjoy  life  as  well  as  one 
can. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Yes,  oughtn't  one,  Doctor  ? 

Hank.  Then  we're  agreed  upon  that?  But,  I  say, 
you've  got  a  new  carpet!  Congratulate  you!  Yes,  and 
a  very  handsome  carpet,  too.  Now,  is  that  a  luxury  ?  I 
say,  no,  it  isn't.  A  carpet  like  that  gives  you  a  good  re- 
turn for  your  money,  ladies;  with  a  carpet  like  that  under 
one's  feet  one  has  higher  and  finer  thoughts,  nobler  feel- 
ings, than  one  would  have  in  an  uncomfortable  room 
with  cold,  creaking  planks  under  one.  And  especially 
where  there  are  children.  [The  race  is  ennobled  in  beau- 
tiful surroundings.] 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Oh,  how  often  I  have  felt  the  same; 
but  I  have  never  been  able  to  give  it  expression. 

Hank.  No,  I  dare  say  not.  You  see,  it  belongs  to 
psychological  statistics;  and  that  is  a  science  that  is  not 
much  developed  at  present.  But  it  is  possible  to  show 
a  connection  between  such  things.  For  instance,  if  that 
fellow  who  is  with  Stenborg 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Mr.  Krogstad? 

Hank.  Yes,  if  Krogstad  had  been  brought  up  in  a 
home  which,  so  to  speak,  was  on  the  sunny  side  of  life, 
with  all  its  spiritual  windows  facing  the  light,  instead  of 
the  cursed  cold,  damp  north — I  know  it — I'll  undertake 
to  say  that  he  would  have  turned  out  a  decent  person, 
like  the  rest  of  us. 


110  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Linde.     Then  he  is  not  one? 

Hank.  He  can't  be  one.  Impossible.  His  mairiage 
was  not  such  that  he  could  be  one.  An  unhappy  mar- 
riage is  like  the  small-pox;   it  leaves  marks  on  the  soul! 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  And  what  does  a  happy  marriage 
do? 

Hank.  It  acts  like  a  course  of  baths ;  it  drives  out  all 
the  noxious  humours  and  encourages  the  growth  of  all 
that  is  good  and  useful  in  a  man.  What  would  have  be- 
come of  Stenborg,  I  wonder,  if  he  hadn't  found  his  little 
song-bird ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  What  ?  How  can  you  think  that 
Thorvald  should  require ? 

Hank.  I  know  him.  He  would  have  become  a  bit 
of  a  slave  to  duty,  a  bit  of  a  drudge,  a  bit  of  a  pedant — in 
a  good  sense. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Fie,  Doctor,  now  I'm  angry  with 
you. 

Hank.  But  don't  you  think  it's  true?  (Sees  Sten- 
borg coming.)     Then  ask  him  yourself. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  No,  no,  no,  leave  off.  (To  Sten- 
borg.)    Has  he  gone? 

Stenborg.     Yes,  this  moment. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Thorvald,  let  me  introduce  you — 
this  is  Christin 

Stenborg.  Ah,  Mrs.  Linde!  Welcome.  I  have  just 
heard  from  Krogstad  that  you  were  here. 

Mrs.  Linde.     From  Krogstad ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     What  has  it  to  do  with  him  ? 

Stenborg.  Well,  he  connected  it  with  what  he  had 
to  say  to  me. 

Mrs.  Linde.     My  being  here? 

Stenborg.  Yes,  he  thinks  he  can  see  a  design  behind 
everything. 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  111 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     But  what  did  lie  want  with  you  ? 

Stenborg.  It's  really  a  tiresome  story.  (To  Dr. 
Hank.)  I  dare  say  you  know  that  for  the  last  year  or  so 
Krogstad  has  had  a  little  place  in  the  Joint  Stock  Bank  ? 

Hank.     Yes;  what  of  it? 

Stenborg.  When  I  accepted  the  post  of  manager  I 
made  it  one  of  my  conditions  that  there  should  be  a 
weeding-out  of  the  staff. 

Hank.  And  that  was  by  no  means  unnecessary,  from 
what  one  hears. 

Stenborg.  More  necessary  than  people  suppose. 
Jobbery  and  routine  had  got  the  upper  hand  in  an  alto- 
gether unwarrantable  way.  I  can't  put  up  with  that;  I 
mean  to  begin  with  a  staff  that  I  can  depend  upon  in 
everything.  I  have  therefore  seen  to  it  that  all  the  un- 
desirables have  received  notice. 

Hank.     You  were  quite  right  there. 

Mrs.  Linde.     And  Krogstad  is  among  them  ? 

Stenborg.  Yes,  I'm  sorry  to  say  so,  he  above  all. 
He  is  altogether  untrustworthy. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Oh  but,  Thorvald,  you've  known 
him  for  years. 

Stenborg.  For  that  very  reason  I  must  be  all  the 
more  strict.  I  wish  indeed  I  could  spare  him;  but  it  is 
impossible.  You  must  not  think  me  hard-hearted,  Mrs. 
Linde.  I  am  certainly  not  that;  but  I  have  a  duty  and 
a  regard  for  the  institution  I  am  to  manage.  I  obtained 
my  post  by  opposition  to  the  existing  system,  by  a  pam- 
phlet, by  a  series  of  newspaper  articles  and  by  decisive 
action  at  the  last  general  meeting.  And  am  I  to  begin 
by  contradicting  myself? 

Hank.     No,  I  hope  you'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort. 

Stenborg.     I  simply  can't  do  so.     My  task  is  before 


112  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

all  things  to  restore  public  confidence  in  the  bank;  and 
therefore  there  must  be  a  weeding-out. 

Mrs.  Linde.  And  yet  I'm  sorry  for  the  people  who 
will  be  hit. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     So  am  I. 

Stenborg.     And  I  no  less. 

Hank.  There  we  have  it!  This  damned  humanity! 
Excuse  me  if  I  express  myself  rather  strongly.  But  it 
makes  me  wild  when  I  hear — .  Who  are  the  people  who 
will  suffer  ?  Incapable  or  disorderly  individuals,  drunk- 
ards many  of  them,  persons  who  take  advantage  of  the 
weakness  of  their  superiors  to  obtain  advances  or  loans 
that  they  can  never  repay. 

Stenborg.     Yes,  you're  not  far  from  the  truth. 

Hank.  And  then,  who  is  it  that  will  suffer  next? 
Why,  the  shareholders,  myself*  and  a  lot  of  other  honest 
men.  We  are  the  people  who  are  robbed  by  incapacity 
and  irregularity  and  apathy,  so  that  we  never  see  a  penny 
of  our  deposits.  But  nobody  pities  us.  No,  of  course 
not;  we  are  not  failures,  we  are  not  drunkards,  forgers, 
discharged  convicts;  and  these  are  the  sort  of  fellows 
who  have  a  monopoly  of  pity  in  our  humane  age. 

Mrs.  Linde.  And  I  suppose  they  are  the  ones  who 
most  need  it. 

Hank.  But  we  don't  need  the  degenerate  specimens 
of  the  race;  we  can  do  without  them.  Study  the  natural 
sciences,  ladies,  and  you  will  see  how  there  is  one  law 
pervading  everything.  The  stronger  tree  deprives  the 
weaker  of  the  conditions  of  life  and  turns  them  to  its 
own  use.  The  same  thing  happens  among  animals;  the 
unfit  individuals  in  a  herd  have  to  make  way  for  the 
better  ones.  And  that  is  how  nature  progresses.  It  is 
only  we  human  beings  who  forcibly  retard  progress  by 
taking  care  of  the  unfit  individuals. — But,  bless  my  soul! 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  113 

Fm  standing  here  talking  and  forgetting  all  about  a 
patient  I  ought  to  look  up.  The  brute  is  quite  capable 
of  slipping  through  my  hands. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Is  that  another  specimen  of  the  unfit, 
Doctor  ? 

Hank.  A  drunken  scoundrel  of  a  miner;  got  his 
right  hand  blown  off  while  tipsy.  If  he  survives  it,  he'll 
be  fit  for  nothing 

Mrs.  Linde.  But  then  it  would  surely  be  best  to  get 
rid  of  him. 

Hank  (putting  on  his  coat).  Yes,  you're  perfectly 
right  there;  that  is  a  thought  that  often  forces  itself  upon 
us  doctors,  especially  when  we're  practising  among  the 
poor.  But  who  is  going  to  take  such  a  responsibility? 
Not  I.  I  won't  say  anything  about  its  being  punishable 
by  law;  but  even  if  it  were  not — .  No,  Mrs.  Linde,  our 
development  has  not  yet  gone  far  enough  for  that.  Well, 
good-bye,  good-bye,  ladies. 

Stenborg.     Wait,  I'll  go  with  you. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Yes,  it's  time  I  was  going  too,  Nora. 
Where  is  the  post  office? 

Stenborg.     I'll  show  you.     We'll  go  together. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Thanks.  (Aside,  as  she  puts  on  her 
things.)     Not  a  word  to  your  husband  about  me 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Oh,  but  Christina! 

Mrs.  Linde.     You  can  see  it  would  be  of  no  use. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Poor  Christina.  But  come  back 
this  evening. 

(They  go  towards  the  door,  talking,  and  out  into  the 
hall.  Outside  on  the  stairs  are  heard  children's 
voices.) 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     There  they  are!     There  they  are! 
(She  runs  to  the  outer  door  and  opens  it.     The  nurse 
enters  the  hall  with  the  three  children.) 


114  FROM   IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Come  in;    come  in;    oh,  my  sweet 
darlings!     Do  you  see  them,  Christina? 

Hank.     Don't   let   us    stand    here   chattering    in  the 
draught. 

Stenborg.     Come,    Mrs.    Linde,   only   mothers   can 
stand  such  a  temperature. 

(Dr.   Hank,  Mrs.  Linde  and  Stenborg  go  out. 

Mrs.  Stenborg,  the  nurse  and  the  children  enter 

the  room.) 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     How  fresh  and  red  you  look!    Have 

you  had  great  fun? — Oh,  really!     You've  been  giving 

Emmy  and  Bob  a  ride  on  your  sledge;  why,  you're  quite 

a  man,  Alf.     Oh,  give  him  to  me  a  little,  Anna.     (Takes 

the  smallest  one  on  her  arm  and  dances  with  him.)     Yes, 

yes;    I'll  dance  with  you  too — What!     Did  you  have  a 

game  of  snowballs  ?     Oh,  I  should  have  liked  to  be  there. 

No,  let  me  take  their  things  oft*,  Anna.     Go  to  the  nursery; 

you  look  frozen.     You'll  find  some  hot  coffee  there. 

(The  Nurse  goes  out  to  the  left.     Mrs.  Stenborg 
takes  off  the  children 's  things  and  throws  them  down 
anywhere •,  while  the  children  all  talk  together.) 
Mrs.  Stenborg.     Really!     A  big  dog  ran  after  you? 
But  he  didn't  bite  you  ?     No,  he  doesn't  bite  good  chil- 
dren.    Don't  peep  into  those  parcels,  Emmy.     What  is 
it?     Wouldn't  you  like  to  know?     Take  care — it'll  bite! 
What  ?     Shall  we  have  a  game  ?     What  shall  we  play  at  ? 
Hide-and-seek?    Yes,  let's  play  hide-and-seek.     A!f  shall 
hide  first.     Am  I  to?     Yes,  let  me  hide  first. 

(She  and  the  children  play,  ivith  laughter  and  shout' 
ing,  in  the  room  and  the  adjacent  one  to  the  left. 
At  last  Mrs.  Stenborg  hides  under  the  table;  tlie 
children  come  rushing  in,  look  for  her,  hut  cannot 
find  her,  hear  her  half-choked  laughter,  rush  to  the 
table,  lift  up  the  cover  and  see  her — loud  shoitis, 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  115 

she  creeps  out  as  though  to  frighten  them.  Fresh 
shouts.  Meanwhile  tliere  has  been  a  knock  at  the 
door  leading  into  the  hall;  no  one  has  heard  it. 
Now  the  door  is  half  opened  and  Krogstad  puts 
his  head  in.) 

Krogstad.     I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Stenborg 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (ivith  a  slight  cry,  half  jumps  -up). 
Ah,  what  do  you  want? 

Krogstad.  Excuse  me.  The  hall  door  was  ajar — 
somebody  must  have  forgotten  to  shut  it 

Mrs.  Stenborg  {standing  up).  My  husband  is  not 
at  home,  Mr.  Krogstad. 

Krogstad.  I  know  it.  I  saw  him  go  down  the 
street. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Then  what  do  you  want  here  ? 

Krogstad.     To  speak  to  you. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  To  me?  {To  the  children,  softly?) 
Go  in  to  Anna.  And  mind  you  are  quiet  and  good. 
What  ?  No,  the  strange  man  won't  hurt  mamma. 
When  he's  gone  we'll  go  on  playing.  {She  leads  the  chil- 
dren into  the  left-hand  room,  and  shuts  the  door  behind 
tliem.  Softly,  in  suspense.)  It  is  to  me  you  wish  to 
speak  ? 

Krogstad.     Yes,  to  you. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  To-day?  But  it's  not  the  first 
yet 

Krogstad.  No,  Mrs.  Stenborg;  it's  two  days  to 
Christmas.  It  will  depend  upon  yourself  what  sort  of 
a  Christmas  you  will  have. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  What  do  you  want?  I'm  not 
ready  to-day 

Krogstad.  Never  mind  that  for  the  present.  I  have 
come  about  another  matter.  You  have  a  minute  to 
spare ? 


116  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so;  although — - 

Krogstad.  Good.  I  was  sitting  in  Olsen's  restaur- 
ant opposite,  and  I  saw  your  husband  go  down  the 
street 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Well  ? 

Krogstad.     — with  a  lady 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     It  was  Mrs.  Linde. 

Krogstad.     I  used  to  know  that  lady. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     She  told  me  so. 

Krogstad.     Did  she  tell  you  no  more? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     No;  nothing  at  all. 

Krogstad  (suspiciously).  H'm; — as  I  was  saying,  she 
has  crossed  my  path  once,  and  now  it  seems  that  she  is 
going  to  do  so  again. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     But  I  don't  understand  at  all 

Krogstad.  Will  you  give  me  a  straightforward  an- 
swer to  a  question  ?  Did  Mrs.  Linde  come  here  to  look 
for  employment? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Yes,  she  did. 

Krogstad.  I  suppose  it  wasn't  a  place  in  the  Joint 
Stock  Bank  that  she 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     But  I  don't  see 


Krogstad.  I  suppose  it  wasn't  the  situation  that  I'm 
to  be  turned  out  of? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Mr.  Krogstad,  I  don't  see  that  I 
am  bound  to  give  you  an  account 

Krogstad.  We  will  speak  of  our  account  presently. — ■ 
You  are  perhaps  aware  that  I  have  had  notice. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Yes. 

Krogstad.     By  your  husband's  directions  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Yes. 

Krogstad.  Mrs.  Stenborg,  you  must  see  that  I  retain 
my  position  3n  the  Bank. 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  117 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  I  ?  How  can  you  imagine  that  I 
should  have  any  such  influence  over  my  husband  ? 

Krogstad.  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  Mr.  Stenborg  is  any 
more  inflexible  than  other  husbands. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  If  you  talk  disrespectfully  of  my 
husband,  I  must  request  you  to  leave  the  house. 

Krogstad.     You  are  bold,  madam. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  I  am  afraid  of  you  no  longer. 
When  New  Year's  Day  is  over,  I  shall  soon  be  out  of  the 
whole  business. 

Krogstad.  Listen  to  me,  Mrs.  Stenborg.  If  I  fight 
as  though  for  my  life  to  keep  my  place  in  the  Bank,  it  is 
not  for  the  sake  of  the  salary. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Why  then? 

Krogstad.  It  is  because  this  place  is  a  kind  of  posi- 
tion of  confidence;  it  is  the  only  situation  that  any  one 
has  entrusted  to  me.  Of  course  you  know,  like  every 
one  else,  that  some  years  ago  I — got  into  trouble  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     I've  heard  something  of  the  sort. 

Krogstad.  The  matter  never  came  into  court;  but 
from  that  moment  all  paths  were  barred  to  me.  Then  I 
took  up  the  business  you  know  about.  I  had  to  turn 
my  hand  to  something;  and  I  don't  think  I've  been  one 
of  the  worst.  But  now  I  must  get  clear  of  it  all.  My 
sons  are  growing  up;  for  their  sake  I  must  try  to  recover 
my  character  as  well  as  I  can.  This  place  in  the  Bank 
was  the  first  step;  and  now  your  husband  comes  and 
kicks  me  off  the  ladder,  and  I  am  back  in  the  mire. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  But  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Krogstad,  I 
have  no  power  to  help  you. 

Krogstad.     I  can  compel  you. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  You  won't  tell  him  that  I  owe  you 
money  ? 

Krogstad.     Suppose  I  were  to? 


118  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  It  would  be  shameful  of  you. 
(Bursts  into  tears.)  This  secret  is  my  joy  and  pride.  I 
had  been  looking  forward  so  eagerly  to  getting  it  all  paid 
off  by  saving  and  working,  and  one  day  telling  my  hus- 
band that  it  was  I .    And  you  can  have  the  heart  to — ! 

(Hotly.)  But  just  do  it!  And  then  you  will  lose  your 
place!  It  would  involve  me  in  all  sorts  of  unpleasant- 
ness ;  but  then  my  husband  will  see  what  a  bad  man  you 
are;    and  then  you  certainly  won't  keep  your  place. 

Krogstad.     Nothing  but  unpleasantness? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  My  husband  will  of  course  pay 
what  I  owe  you. 

Krogstad.  Either  your  memory  is  defective,  or  you 
don't  know  much  about  business.  I  must  make  the 
position  a  little  clearer  to  you. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     How  so? 

Krogstad.  When  your  hnsband  was  ill,  you  came  to 
me  to  borrow  twelve  hundred  dollars. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     I  knew  of  nobody  else. 

Krogstad.     I  promised  to  find  you  the  money. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     And  you  did  find  it. 

Krogstad.  I  promised  to  find  you  the  money,  on 
certain  conditions.  You  were  so  much  taken  up  at  the 
time  about  your  husband's  illness,  and  so  eager  to  have 
the  wherewithal  for  your  journey,  that  you  probably  did 
not  give  much  thought  to  the  details.  Allow  me  to  re- 
mind you  of  them.  I  promised  to  find  you  the  amount 
in  exchange  for  a  note  of  hand,  which  I  drew  up. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Yes,  and  I  signed  it. 

Krogstad.  Quite  right.  But  then  I  added  a  few 
lines,  making  your  father  security  for  the  debt.  Your 
father  was  to  sign  this. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Was  to — ?     He  did  sign  it! 

Krogstad.     I  had  left  the  date  blank.     That  is  to 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  119 

s&y,  your  father  was  himself  to  date  his  signature.  Do 
you  recollect  that? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Yes,  I  believe 

Krogstad.  Then  I  gave  you  the  paper  to  send  to 
your  father,  by  post.     Is  not  that  so? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Yes. 

Krogstad.  And  of  course  you  did  so  at  once;  for 
within  eight  or  ten  days  you  brought  me  back  the  docu- 
ment with  your  father's  signature;  and  I  handed  you  the 
money. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  Well  ?  Have  I  not  made  my  pay- 
ments punctually? 

Krogstad.  Fairly — yes.  But  to  return  to  the  point: 
you  were  in  great  trouble  at  the  time,  Mrs.  Stenborg? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     I  was  indeed. 

Krogstad.     Your  father  was  very  ill,  I  believe  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     He  was  on  his  death-bed. 

Krogstad.     And  died  soon  after? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Yes. 

Krogstad.  Tell  me,  Mrs.  Stenborg:  do  you  happen 
to  recollect  the  day  of  his  death?  The  day  of  the 
month,  I  mean? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     He  died  on  the  29th  of  September. 

Krogstad.  Quite  correct.  I  have  made  inquiries. 
And  here  comes  in  the  remarkable  point — (produces  a 
paper)  which  I  cannot  explain. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  What  remarkable  point?  I  don't 
know 

Krogstad.  The  remarkable  point,  madam,  that  your 
father  signed  this  paper  five  days  after  his  death! 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     What!     I  don't  understand 

Krogstad.  Your  father  died  on  the  29th  of  Septem- 
ber. But  look  here:  he  has  dated  his  signature  October 
4th!     Is  not  that  remarkable,  Mrs.  Stenborg?     (Mrs. 


120  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Stenborg  is  silent.)  Can  you  explain  it,  madam  ? 
(Mrs.  Stenborg  continues  silent.)  It  is  noteworthy, 
too,  that  the  words  "  October  4th "  and  the  year  are  not 
in  your  father's  handwriting,  but  in  one  which  I  believe 
I  know.  Look  there.  Well,  this  may  be  explained; 
your  father  may  have  forgotten  to  date  his  signature, 
and  somebody  may  have  added  the  date  here.  There  is 
nothing  wrong  in  that.  Of  course  it  is  genuine,  Mrs. 
Stenborg  ?  It  was  really  your  father  himself  who  wrote 
his  name  here  ? 

Mrs.  Stenborg  (after  a  short  silence,  throws  her  head 
back,  looks  him  firmly  in  the  face  and  says  proudly  and 
defiantly).  No,  it  was  not.  It  was  I  who  copied  his 
signature. 

Krogstad.  Ah! — Are  you  aware,  madam,  that  that 
is  a  dangerous  admission?       * 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  How  so?  You  will  soon  get  your 
money. 

Krogstad.  May  I  ask  you  one  more  question  ?  Why 
did  you  not  send  the  paper  to  your  father? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  It  was  impossible.  My  father  was 
very  ill.  Had  I  asked  him  for  his  signature,  I  should 
have  had  to  tell  him  wThy  I  wanted  the  money;  but  he 
wras  so  ill  I  really  could  not  tell  him  that  my  husband's 
life  was  in  danger.     It  was  impossible. 

Krogstad.  Then  would  it  not  have  been  better  to 
have  given  up  your  tour? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  I  couldn't  do  that;  my  husband's 
life  depended  on  that  journey.     I  couldn't  give  it  up. 

Krogstad.  Did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  you  and 
your  husband  might  die  on  the  journey,  and  that  I  should 
then  be  defrauded  of  my  money? 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  That  was  nothing  to  me.  I  didn't 
care  in  the  least  about  you.     I  couldn't  endure  you  for 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE  1£1 

all  the  cruel  difficulties  you  made,  although  you  knew 
how  ill  my  husband  was. 

Krogstad.  Mrs.  Stenborg,  you  evidently  do  not 
realise  what  you  have  been  guilty  of.  Let  me  tell  you  it 
was  nothing  more  nor  worse  that  made  me  an  outcast 
from  society. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  You  ?  You  want  me  to  believe 
that  you  did  anything  to  save  your  wife's  life  ? 

Krogstad.     The  law  takes  no  account  of  motives. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.     Then  it  must  be  a  very  bad  law. 

Krogstad.     Bad  or  not,  the  judges  must  follow  it. 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  I  don't  believe  that.  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  a  daughter  has  no  right  to  spare  her  in- 
valid father? — that  a  wife  has  no  right  to  save  her  hus- 
band's life?  I  don't  know  much  about  the  law,  but 
I'm  sure  you'll  find,  somewhere  or  another,  that  that  is 
allowed.  And  you  don't  know  that — you,  a  lawyer! 
You  must  be  a  bad  one,  Mr.  Krogstad. 

Krogstad.     Allow  me,  madam 

Mrs.  Stenborg.  I  don't  want  to  h$ar  any  more — . 
You  think  you  can  frighten  me,  but  you  haven't  suc- 
ceeded.    I'm  not  so  foolish  as  you  imagine. 

Krogstad.  Very  well.  I  may  tell  you  once  more: 
you  are  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice;  you  have  every- 
thing to  lose;  your  whole  future;  everything,  I  tell  you. 
If  I  am  flung  into  the  gutter  a  second  time,  you  shall 
keep  me  company.     {Bows  and  goes  out  through  hall.) 

Nora  {stands  a  icJiile  thinking,  then  reassured).  Oh, 
nonsense!  {Begins  folding  the  children's  clothes*  but 
pauses  in  the  middle:)  But — ?  No,  it's  impossible! 
Why,  I  did  it  for  love! 

Children  {at  the  door,  left).  Mamma,  has  the  strange 
man  gone? 


122  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Nora.  Yes;  but  don't  tell  papa  that  any  one  has  been 
here. 

Children.     No,  and  now  will  you  play  with  us  again, 

Nora.     No,  no;  not  now,  children. 

Children.    Oh,  do,  mamma;  you  know  you  promised. 

Nora.  Yes,  but  I  can't  just  now.  Run  to  the  nursery. 
I  have  so  much  to  do.  Run  along,  run  along,  and  be 
good,  my  darlings!  (She  closes  the  door  behind  them; 
then  takes  up  her  knitting,  but  lets  it  drop  again,  then  knits 
hurriedly  and  says  in  a  spasmodic  voice :)  No,  it's  quite 
impossible! 

Enter  Stenborg  from  the  hall. 

Nora.     Oh,  you're  back  already? 

Stenborg.     Yes,     Has  anybody  been  here? 

Nora.     Here  ?     No. 

Stenborg.  Are  you  sure  ?  That's  odd.  I  saw 
Krogstad  come  out  of  the  house. 

Nora.  Did  you?  Oh,  yes,  by-the-bye,  he  was  here 
for  a  minute. 

Stenborg.  Nora,  he  has  been  begging  you  to  put  in 
a  good  word  for  him  ? 

Nora.     Yes. 

Stenborg.  And  you  were  to  say  nothing  to  me  of  his 
having  asked  you  ?  You  were  to  do  it  as  if  of  your  own 
accord  ? 

Nora.     Yes. 

Stenborg.  Nora,  Nora!  And  you  could  agree  to 
that!  To  condescend  to  intrigue  with  such  a  person! 
And  to  tell  me  an  untruth! 

Nora.     An  untruth! 

Stenborg.     Didn't  you  say  that  nobody  had  been 
here  ?     My  little  bird  must  never  do  that  again !     A  song- 
bird must  sing  clear  and  true;    no  false  notes — .     Well, 
well,  well,  it  was  the  first  time;  let's  say  no  more  about  it. 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE  123 

(Sits  down  before  the  fire.)  Oh,  how  warm  and  quiet  it  is 
here! 

Nora  (busy  with  her  parcels).     Thorvald! 

Stenborg.     Yes. 

Nora.  Was  it  anything  so  very  dreadful  that  poor 
Krogstad  got  into  trouble  about? 

Stenborg.  Forgery.  Don't  you  know  what  that 
means  ? 

Nora.     But  mayn't  he  have  been  driven  to  it  by  need  ? 

Stenborg.  Yes;  or,  like  so  many  others,  he  may  have 
done  it  in  pure  heedlessness.  I  am  not  so  hard-hearted 
as  to  condemn  a  man  absolutely  for  a  single  fault. 

Nora.     No,  surely  not,  Thorvald. 

Stenborg.  I  have  seen  examples  of  such  men  re- 
trieving their  character,  when  their  crime  has  been  dis- 
covered at  once  and  they  have  taken  the  punishment. 

Nora.     Punishment ? 

Stenborg.  Yes,  there's  imprisonment  for  forgery. 
But  that  didn't  happen  with  Krogstad.  His  crime  was 
not  discovered  till  long  afterwards,  and  that  is  what  has 
morally  ruined  him. 

Nora.     How — —  ? 

Stenborg.  Just  think  how  such  a  man  must  be  al- 
ways lying  and  canting  and  shamming.  Think  of  the 
mask  he  must  wear  even  towards  those  who  stand  nearest 
him — towards  his  own  wife  and  children.  The  effect  on 
the  children — that's  the  most  terrible  part  of  it,  Nora. 

Nora.     Why ? 

Stenborg.  Because  in  such  an  atmosphere  of  lies 
home  life  is  poisoned  and  contaminated  in  every  fibre; 
every  breath  the  children  draw  contains  some  germ  of 
evil. 

Nora  (behind  him) .     Are  you  sure  of  that,  Thorvald  ? 

Stenborg.     I  have  absolute  statistical  proof  of  it.     I 


124  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

have  studied  these  questions  a  good  deal  and  I  have 
found  that  nearly  all  cases  of  early  corruption  may  be 
traced  to  lying  mothers. 

Nora.     Mothers ? 

Stenborg.  Yes,  mothers  in  particular;  but  of  course 
the  father's  influence  may  act  in  the  same  way;  and 
Krogstad  knew  that  only  too  well.  And  yet  he  has  been 
poisoning  his  own  children  for  years  past  by  a  life  of  un- 
truthfulness and  hypocrisy.  That  is  why  I  call  him 
morally  ruined.  So  my  sweet  little  Nora  must  promise 
not  to  plead  his  cause.  Shake  hands  upon  it.  Come, 
come,  what's  this  ?  Give  me  your  hand.  That's  right. 
Then  it's  a  bargain.  I  assure  you  it  would  have  been 
impossible  for  me  to  work  with  him;  it  gives  me  a  sense 
of  discomfort  to  come  in  contact  with  such  people. 
(Nora  draws  her  hand  away,  and  moves  towards  the  table.) 
Well,  what  is  it? 

Nora.     It  is  so  warm.     Oh,  I  have  so  much  to  do. 

Stenborg  (rising).  Yes,  and  I  must  try  to  get  through 
my  business.  And  then  the  Christmas-tree  shall  be  deco- 
rated, and  we'll  bring  the  children  in — and  then  we'll  have 
a  joyful  and  happy  Christmas  Eve,  my  precious  little 
song-bird!     (He  goes  into  his  room  and  shuts  the  door.) 

Nora.  No,  no,  no — !  It  can't  be.  I  will  decorate 
the  Christmas-tree.     No;  not  with  my  hands! 

Anna  (at  the  door,  left).  The  children  are  asking  if 
they  may  come  in,  ma'am  ? 

Nora.  No,  no,  don't  let  them  come  to  me!  Keep 
them  with  you,  Anna. 

Anna.  Very  well,  ma'am.  (Goes  back  into  the 
nursery.) 

Nora  (pale  with  terror).  Corrupt  them?  Poison — ! 
No!  Yes;  yes! — But  it's  impossible!  It  must  be  im- 
possible!    Why,  I  did  it  for  love! 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  125 

SECOND   ACT 

The  same  room, 

Nora  is  putting  on  her  hat  and  cloak;  her  muff  and  gloves 
are  on  the  table. 

Nora  (anxiously,  at  the  hall  door) .  Is  somebody  com- 
ing?— Nobody.  No,  of  course,  he  won't  come  to-day; 
it's  New  Year's  Eve;  nor  to-morrow  either. — Stuff  and 
nonsense!  Of  course  he  won't  come  at  all.  He  won't 
do  it.  It  won't  happen.  It's  impossible. — O  God,  O 
God,  put  something  in  Thorvald's  mind,  so  that  he  won't 
irritate  that  terrible  man.  O  God,  O  God,  I  have  three 
little  children.  Oh,  do  it  for  the  sake  of  my  little  chil- 
dren! 

Nurse  (at  the  door,  left).  Now  I  have  everything 
ready,  if  you  would — .  Oh,  I  see,  you're  going  out, 
ma'am  ? 

Nora.  Yes,  I  must  go  out.  Isn't  it  fearfully  close  in 
here  ?     I  feel  as  if  I  should  be  stifled. 

Nurse.  But  there's  a  keen  wind  out-of-doors.  Do 
be  careful,  ma'am;  you  might  easily  make  yourself  ill. 

Nora.  Well,  what  does  that  matter?  Do  you  count 
it  a  misfortune  to  be  ill  ? 

Nurse.     Yes,  that  I  do. 

Nora.  But  people  are  sympathetic  towards  those  who 
are  ill.  No  one  will  do  any  harm  to  a  person  who  is 
ill. — Oh  yes,  though,  there  is  somebody  who  would  do  it. 

Nurse.     Oh,  but,  ma'am 

Nora.  Listen,  Lena,  if  anything  should  happen  to 
me,  will  you  promise  to  take  care  of  the  children 

Nurse.  But  you  make  me  so  terribly  frightened, 
ma'am.     Is  anything  the  matter? 


126  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Nora.  No,  no,  but  nobody  can  tell  what  may  happen. 
Oh,  Lena,  you  must  never  desert  them,  so  long  as  they 
need  you.     Will  you  promise  me  that? 

Nurse  (in  tears).  Didn't  I  look  after  Nora  when  she 
was  little  and  had  no  mother?  Can  Nora  think  that  I 
should  desert  her  little  children? 

Nora.  No,  of  course  not,  I  know  that  very  well,  Lena. 
Oh,  the  little  darlings  will  still  be  well,  if  I  am  not — . 
But  it  isn't  certain  that  anything  will  happen.  So  many 
strange  things  happen  in  the  world;  so  many  people  are 
saved  from  great  misfortunes.  Very  often  it  turns  out 
to  be  only  a  dream.  Oh,  how  splendid  it  would  be  to 
wake  up  and  come  to  one's  senses  and  cry  out,  I've  been 
dreaming,  I've  been  dreaming! 

Nurse.     But,  in  heaven's  name,  ma'am 

Nora.  You  mustn't  look*  so  frightened.  I  had  so 
little  sleep  last  night. 

Nurse.  Yes,  that's  the  fault  of  all  these  parties.  Oh, 
ma'am,  is  it  wise  ? — out  every  single  evening  the  whole 
Christmas  week;  out  till  late  at  night. 

Nora.  Ah,  but  it's  lovely,  Lena — there's  music  and 
lights,  and  beautiful  clothes — and  so  much  amusement; 
one  forgets;  one  doesn't  think — Oh,  but  it's  lovely  to 
live,  Lena — to  be  young — to  be  really  alive.  Look,  how 
the  sun  is  shining — the  snow  is  dripping  off  the  roofs;  it 
is  not  cold,  as  you  said — it's  spring  weather — we  shall 
soon  have  spring — and — Spring! 

Nurse.  What  is  it,  ma'am?  You're  as  white  as  a 
sheet. 

Nora.     Oh,  it  was  fearful. 

Nurse.     What?     What  was  it? 

Nora.  I  was  thinking  of  the  terrible  story  you  told 
me  when  I  was  little. 

Nurse.     I  ? 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE  127 

Nora.  Don't  you  remember  the  girl  who  lived  near 
us,  who  had  helped  to  murder  her  father  and  was  exe- 
cuted ?  When  they  came  to  fetch  her  she  screamed :  No, 
not  now  in  the  spring-time!  Not  now  in  the  sunshine!— 
Yes,  it  is  terrible  to  die  in  the  spring-time  and  in  the  sun- 
shine. 

Nurse.  As  I'm  alive,  as  soon  as  the  Doctor  comes 
I'll 

Nora.  You're  not  to  say  a  single  word  to  the  Doctor. 
You  silly  old  Lena — (laughing)  how  could  you  be  so 
frightened — ha,  ha,  ha — can't  you  guess  that  I  was 
joking 

Nurse.     Well,  then  God  forgive  Nora 


Nora.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  horrid  of  me.  (Petting  her.) 
Don't  be  angry;  I'll  never  do  it  again.  Oh,  now  you're 
laughing!     That's  right;   go  in  to  the  children 

Nurse.  Yes,  I'll  go.  But  I'll  never  forget  how 
frightened  I  was.  (She  goes  into  the  nursery.) 

Nora.  There,  there.  Now  I'll  go  out.  Only  not  to 
think.  Only  not  to  think. — What  a  delicious  muff! 
Beautiful  gloves!  Beautiful  gloves! — To  forget! — One, 
two,  three,  four,  five,  six —  (With  a  scream.)  Ah, 
who's  that? 

Stenborg  (at  the  hall  hoor).  Heavens!  what's  hap- 
pening ? 

Nora.     Oh,  is  it  you  ? 

Stenborg.  Of  course.  Is  that  anything  to  be 
frightened  of,  silly  little  girl  ?  But  how  worn-out  you 
look,  my  dear  Nora.     What  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 

Nora.     You  know,  we  were  up  very  late  last  night. 

Stenborg.  Much  too  late.  But  we'll  make  an  end 
of  that. 

Nora.     Yes,  there  will  soon  be  an  end  of  that. 


128  FROM   IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Stenborg.  Fortunately.  After  New  Year's  Day, 
work  will  begin. 

Nora.     New  Year's  Day; — why,  that's  to-morrow. 

Stenborg.  And  the  day  after  to-morrow,  business. 
Are  you  going  out ? 

Nora.     Yes. 

Stenborg.  What,  again?  You've  already  been  out 
once  to-day. 

Nora.     If  you  would  rather,  I  will  stay  at  home. 

Stenborg.  No,  go  if  you  like;  it  will  bring  the  roses 
back  into  your  cheeks.  They  suit  you  so  well.  My 
little  elf  mustn't  have  such  pale  cheeks  and  tired  eyes.  I 
must  have  you  about  me,  well  and  fresh  and  lively,  to 
make  me  feel  happy  and  comfortable.  (Kissing  her.) 
There,  now  go;  I'll  get  on  with  my  work.  I've  been 
down  to  the  Bank  and  brought  home  these  papers. 

Nora.     To  the  Bank?     Have  you  already ? 

Stenborg.  It's  only  some  details  that  I  want  to 
make  myself  more  familiar  with.  Good-bye;  go  now; 
but  don't  catch  cold. 

Nora.     Thorvald. 

Stenborg.     Yes. 

Nora.  If  your  little  squirrel  were  to  beg  you  for 
something  so  prettily? 

Stenborg.     Well  ? 

Nora.     Would  you  do  it? 

Stenborg.     I  must  first  know  what  it  is. 

Nora.  The  squirrel  would  skip  about  and  play  all 
sorts  of  tricks  if  you  would  do  it. 

Stenborg.     Out  with  it. 

Nora.  Your  Jark  would  twitter  from  morning  till 
night 

Stenborg.     Nora 


Nora.     Your  elf  would  dance  for  you,  Thorvald- 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  129 

Stenborg.  I  understand.  Have  you  really  the  cour- 
age to  ask  me  that  again ? 

Nora.     I  beg  and  implore  you,  Thorvald! 

Stenborg.  You  have  done  that  every  single  day  this 
week. 

Nora.     Yes,  but  to-day  you  will  do  what  I  ask. 

Stenborg.  I  shall  not.  What  has  put  it  into  your 
head  to  be  so  frightened  of  this  person,  to  be  afraid  I 
shall  make  an  enemy  of  him,  that  he  will  write  against 
me  in  the  newspapers  ?  It  is  an  insult  to  me,  Nora,  a 
double  insult,  first  to  think  that  I  am  weak  and  then 
that  I  am  afraid. 

Nora.  No,  no,  no,  it's  not  an  insult.  Oh,  we  could 
live  so  quietly  and  happily  now,  in  our  cosy,  peaceful 
home,  you  and  I  and  the  children. — The  children,  the 
children,  Thorvald! 

Stenborg.     The  children  ?     What  about  them  ? 

Nora.  Oh,  Thorvald,  you  must  do  what  I  ask.  Re- 
member, it  is  the  last  day  of  the  year.  This  is  the  last 
thing  I  shall  ask  of  you  this  year. 

Stenborg.  And  you  would  end  the  year  by  carrying 
through  a  wilful  fancy?  Yes,  you  are  wilful,  Nora;  you 
have  never  learnt  to  overcome  your  whims.  That  is 
your  father's  fault.  He  was  too  indulgent  with  you. 
I'm  sure  he  was  never  able  to  deny  you  anything.  And 
I  haven't  been  able  to,  either.  I  am  partly  to  blame. 
But  this  must  be  changed;   it  is  for  your  own  good. 

Nora.  Yes,  after  this!  Be  strict,  Thorvald — be  as 
strict  as  you  like;  but  do  what  I  ask  just  this  once.  Do 
you  hear,  Thorvald 

Stenborg.  We'll  put  an  end  to  this.  (Rings  the  bell 
by  the  door  to  the  hall.) 

Nora.     What  do  you  want  ? 


130  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Stenborg.  To  settle  the  thing.  (The  Maid  enters.) 
Here;  take  this  letter;  give  it  to  a  messenger.  See  that 
he  takes  it  at  once.  The  address  is  on  it.  Here's  the 
money. 

Maid.     Very  well,  sir.  (Goes  out.) 

Stenborg.     There,  my  little  song-bird. 

Nora.     Thorvald,  what  was  in  the  letter? 

Stenborg.     It  was  a  business  letter. 

Nora.     What  was  in  the  letter,  Thorvald. 

Stenborg.     Krogstad's  dismissal. 

Nora.  Call  it  back  again,  Thorvald!  There's  still 
time. 

Stenborg.  There  is  no  time;  he  must  have  it  before 
the  year  is  out. 

Nora.  Oh,  call  it  back  again,  Thorvald!  For  my 
sake.  For  your  own  sake.  -For  the  children's  sake. 
Oh,  Thorvald,  you  don't  know  what  you're  doing. 

Stenborg.  Have  I  deserved  this  of  you — this  anxiety  ? 
Yes,  Nora,  it  is  a  slur  upon  me.  I  understand  very  well 
what  you  are  thinking  of.  You  remember  all  the  accusa- 
tions and  denunciations  and  newspaper  attacks  that  your 
father  in  his  time  was  exposed  to,  and  that  caused  him  so 
many  bitter  hours.  And  now  you  are  afraid  that  I — ; 
that  is  what  offends  me,  Nora.  But  you  ought  to  know 
that  I  am  unimpeachable,  while  your  father  was  not. 

Nora.     Thorvald! 

Stenborg.  No,  your  father  was  not  a  methodical 
official,  Nora.  I  can  give  you  an  example;  I  have  never 
cared  to  tell  you  before,  but  now  you  shall  know  it.  The 
twelve  hundred  dollars  that  he  gave  you  when  you  in- 
sisted on  going  to  Italy  were  never  even  entered  in  his 
accounts;  it  is  quite  impossible  to  find  out  where  he  got 
them  from. 

Nora.     My  poor,  poor  father. 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  131 

Stenborg.  My  dearest  Nora,  I'm  not  saying  that  to 
hurt  you.  but  to  make  you  understand  what  a  difference 
there  is  between  him  and  me.  I  make  no  reproach 
against  your  father;  he  was  the  kindest-hearted  man, 
much  too  good;  and  he  was  on  his  death-bed  at  the  time. 

Nora.     Oh,  what  a  good  thing  it  was  that  father  died ! 

Stenborg.  There,  there,  there,  my  little  song-bird! 
We  won't  have  any  of  that.  What  are  you  saying? 
That  it's  a  good  thing  to  die?  Is  that  the  sort  of  thing 
for  little  song-birds,  who  are  just  beginning  to  live  ? 
Now  then,  a  cheerful  face,  to  give  me  light  and  warmth. 
Isn't  that  what  you're  for? 

Nora.     Who's  that  coming? 

Stenborg.     What,  anxious  again  ? 

(Doctor  Rank  comes  in  from  the  hall.) 

Rank.     Good-day  to  you.     All  well  ? 

Stenborg.     Oh,  fairly. 

Nora.     Yes,  thanks,  Doctor. 

Stenborg.     But  you  don't  look  too  well  yourself. 

Rank.     I  am  running  down  hill;  there's  no  help  for  it. 

Stenborg.     Oh,  but,  my  dear  friend. 

Rank.  Yes,  yes — why  lie  to  one's  self  ?  In  these  last 
days  I  have  been  auditing  my  life-account.  A  con- 
foundedly wretched  result.  I  may  be  tolerably  certain 
that  this  is  the  last  New  Year's  Eve  I  shall  see.  A  year 
hence  I  shall  lie  rotting  in  the  churchyard. 

Nora.     Ugh,  that's  frightful 

Rank.  Well,  one  has  to  go  some  day.  But  to  suffer 
thus  for  another's  sin!  Where's  the  justice  of  it?  And 
yet  you  can  trace  in  every  family  an  inexorable  retribu- 
tion. It  is  my  father's  wild  oats  that  my  poor  spinal 
marrow  must  do  penance  for. 

Stenborg.  Oh,  you'll  last  a  long  while  yet  with  thai 
spinal  marrow, 


132  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Rank.  Like  a  Lazarus;  it  isn't  a  very  tempting  pros- 
pect. Ah,  for  a  healthy,  happy  person  it  must  be  a 
desperate  thing  to  have  to  go.  For  one  who  has  a  home, 
a  circle  of  dear  ones  around  him ■ 

Nora.     Good-bye. 

Rank.     Are  you  going  out? 

Nora.  Yes,  yes;  I  must  have  some  tresh  air.  Good- 
bye. (She  goes  out.) 

Rank.     Is  anything  the  matter  with  her? 

Stenborg.  I  don't  know  what  to  say;  she  has  been 
like  that  all  the  week,  in  an  unnaturally  excited  condition; 
she  has  all  kinds  of  needless  anxieties;  it  seems  as  if  she 
was  not  at  ease  in  the  house;  she  no  longer  plays  with 
the  children 

Rank.     It  is  the  great  change  in  your  position 

Stenborg.  Yes,  it  must  come  from  that.  She  seems 
to  be  constantly  tormented  by  the  idea  that  it  will  not 
last. 

Rank.     I  see,  I  see. 

Stenborg.  At  first  she  was  so  exuberantly  happy 
about  it.  You  can  imagine — with  her  light-hearted  dis- 
position, how  she  felt  on  being  suddenly  placed  in  a 
position  free  from  care  and  even  opulent.  My  poor 
little  Nora;  I  blame  myself  for  not  having  prepared  her 
more  cautiously. 

Rank.     Yes,  perhaps  you  ought  to  have  done  so. 

Stenborg.  But  I  couldn't  guess — and  besides,  I 
couldn't  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  so 
radiantly  happy.  (Nora  re-enters.)  What?  Are  you 
back  already? 

Nora.  Yes,  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  had  such  a  feeling 
of  anxiety;  one  never  knows  what  may  happen  when  one 
is  out.  I  must  see  the  children — (Goes  to  the  door  and 
lays  her  hand  on  the  handle,  but  quickly  withdraws  it.) 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  133 

Stenborg.     Why  don't  you  go  in  ? 

Nora.  No,  no,  I  won't  go  to  them.  There's  no  need 
to;  I  can  hear  that  everything  is  quiet;  I  will  stay  here 
with  you. 

Stenborg.  Well,  you  must  dispense  with  my  society 
for  half  an  hour,  my  dear  Nora. 

Nora.     Oh,  no,  no,  Thorvald,  don't  go  out. 

Stenborg.  I  don't  intend  to;  I  must  do  some  work 
in  my  room.  But  Rank  will  stay  a  little  while — (Signs 
to  him.)     Won't  you  ?     I  think  you  said 

Rank.  Yes,  I  shall  be  glad  to  walk  about  a  little  on 
your  new  carpet. 

Stenborg.  And  I'll  make  fast  my  door.  No  one  is 
to  come  in;  no  disturbers  of  the  peace;  no  squirrels 
among  my  papers — 

(Goes  into  his  room  and  bolts  the  door.) 

Nora  (taking  off  her  hat  and  cloak) .  Don't  you  think 
it's  frightfully  warm,  Doctor? 

Rank.     No,  on  the  contrary. 

Nora.     You're  cold,  perhaps? 

Rank.  Not  that  either.  You  keep  a  pleasant  tem- 
perature as  usual.  That  is  one  of  the  wonderful  gifts 
that  many  women  have — when  one  enters  their  rooms, 
one  is  permeated,  as  it  were,  by  a  gentle  sense  of  well- 
being. 

Nora.     Oh,  yes,  it  is  pleasant  here. 

Rank.  Yes,  isn't  it?  We  bachelors  have  a  keen 
sense  for  such  things.  And  we  know  how  to  appreciate 
them.  The  worthy  husbands  don't  always  do  that. 
They  get  so  used  to  it;  they  think  that  all  these  blessings 
are  a  matter  of  course,  something  that  follows  quite 
naturally  from  the  fact  that  one  is  alive.  It  is  the  same 
as  with  a  constant  unremitting  noise;  one  does  not  no- 
tice it  until  it  ceases.     I  am  almost  certain  that  this  is 


134  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

the  case  with  Stenborg.  Now  that  your  circumstances 
allow  it,  you  ought  now  and  then  to  leave  him  for  a  day 
or  two. 

Nora  {after  a  short  pause).  Do  you  think  he  would 
miss  me  much,  if  I  were  away? 

Rank.     Try. 

Nora.  Oh,  no,  no,  no.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't 
speak  like  that.  Who  would  do  such  a  thing  voluntarily  ? 
To  leave  him  and  the  children! 

Rank.  I  knew  it.  But  with  him,  Mrs.  Stenborg? 
With  him  and  the  children  too. 

Nora.     Ah,  that  would  be  lovely. 

Rank.  To  get  away  a  little;  to  see  the  great  open 
sea  again — you  who  are  so  fond  of  the  sea. 

Nora.  Oh,  yes,  the  sea,  the  sea!  Isn't  the  sea 
splendid  ? 

Rank.  And  then,  to  see  your  home  from  a  distance, 
in  a  new  light. 

Nora.  And  to  come  back  again,  to  go  round  one's 
own  rooms,  arranging  all  the  beautiful  things  one  has 
brought  home,  to  play  with  the  children,  to  see  them 
growing  strong  and —     (In  terror.)     Ah! 

Rank.     What's  the  matter? 

Nora.  Oh,  it  was  nothing;  it  was  something  I  just 
remembered,  something  that  had  escaped  my  memory. 

Rank.     May  I  feel  your  pulse  ? 

Nora.  No,  no,  there's  nothing  wrong  with  me;  I  as- 
sure you 

Rank.  There  is  something  on  your  mind,  in  any  case. 
Do  you  think  it  is  any  use  denying  that  to  me  ?  And  why 
do  you  wish  to  deny  it?  WThy  hide  anything  from  an 
old  friend  ?     For  I  am  one,  am  I  not  ? 

Nora.     Oh,  Doctor  Rank! 

Rank.     Well,  what  is  it? 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE  135 

Nora.  No,  no,  I  can't.— Well,  tell  me  this,  Doctor; 
is  Thorvald  quite  strong  now  ? 

Rank.     Yes,  certainly  he  is. 

Nora.  Are  you  quite  sure  that  he  could  stand  a  great 
shock,  a  great  grief,  or  anything  of  that  sort  ? 

Rank.  What  kind  of  a  shock  or  grief  are  you  talking 
about  ? 

Nora.  I  can't  tell;  so  many  things  might  happen. 
At  the  time  he  was  ill  you  said  he  must  avoid  any  strong 
emotion. 

Rank.     Yes,  at  that  time. 

Nora.  And  do  you  think  after  all  that  Thorvald  is 
so  immoderately  fond  of  me? 

Rank.     But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Stenborg 

Nora.  Perhaps  it  would  be  well  if  he  were  not  so. 
And  yet  I  think  he  would  surely  be  able  to  bear  it,  he 
would  surely  get  over  it. 

Rank.     What,  Mrs.  Stenborg?     What? 

Nora.  If  anything  happened  to  me.  Doctor,  I  am 
so  fearfully  anxious.  My  head  is  so  confused.  Suppose 
I  went  out  of  my  mind  ? 

Rank.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  What  makes 
you  think  of  such  things  ? 

Nora.  Oh,  one  never  knows — .  Or  if  something 
else  happened  to  me;  if  I  could  not  stay  with  him  any 
longer 

Rank.     What? 

Nora.  Oh,  Doctor,  he  would  surely  be  able  to  sur- 
vive it. 

Rank.  My  dear  Mrs.  Stenborg,  these  are  fancies  that 
you  must  struggle  against  with  all  your  might. 

Nora.  Oh,  yes;  oh,  yes;  I  shall  do  that.  But  tell 
me,  don't  you  think  that  Thorvald  would  survive  it,  like 
other  men,  if  he  lost  me  r 


136  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rank.  Well,  you  see,  this  idea  of  a  thing  being  the 
death  of  a  person  is  in  most  cases  nothing  but  a  figure  of 
speech,  at  any  rate  as  far  as  the  male  sex  is  concerned. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  survive  everything,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Stenborg.  At  the  moment  when  the  blew  falls, 
it  seems  impossible  to  bear  it.  But  time  passes,  day 
after  day,  and  one  learns  to  accept  the  inevitable,  one 
makes  fresh  ties 

Nora.     Fresh  ties ! 

Rank.     Well,  I  mean 


Nora.  Fresh    ties — !     I    hadn't    thought    of    that. 
But  no,  no,  no! 

Rank.  I  must  speak  to  Stenborg. 

Nora.  What  will  you  speak  about? 

Rank.  About  your  condition. 

Nora.  You  won't!     You^mustn't  do  that! 

Rank.  I  must.     All  this  is  so  inexplicable  and  so 


serious 

Nora.     Oh,  I  beg  you  not  to  alarm  him. 

Rank.  Don't  be  uneasy,  I'll  do  it  as  gently  as  possi- 
ble; but  both  for  his  sake  and  your  own  we  must  find 
some  way 

Nora.     Oh,  there  is  no  way  of  escaping  from  this. 

Rank.     From  what? 

Nora.  From  what  is  going  to  happen;  I  don't  know, 
but  I  feel 

Rank.  H'm —  {Knocks.)  Open  the  door,  I  must 
speak  to  you. 

Stenborg  {opening  his  door) .     Well  ? 

Rank.  Look  here —  {Softly.)  Don't  be  uneasy, 
Mrs.  Stenborg!  {He  and  Stenborg  go  into  the  room; 
the  bolting  of  the  door  is  heard.) 

Nora  (listening  at  the  door).  What  are  they  talking 
about?     They  are  whispering.     What  are  they  saying 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  137 

about  me  ?  What  does  he  think  ?  Oh,  it  isn't  yet — . 
In  to  the  children.  (Stops  before  the  door  on  the  left.) 
No,  no,  mustn't  see  them.  (Mrs.  Linde  enters  from 
the  hall.)  Oh,  Christina,  is  that  you?  I'm  so  glad 
you  have  come. 

Mrs.  Linde.     I  hear  you  called  at  my  lodgings. 

Nora.  Yes,  but  you  had  just  gone  out.  I'm  so  glad 
you  have  come.  I  want  so  much  to  see  you  and  speak 
to  you. 

Mrs.  Linde.  And  I  have  come  to  thank  your  hus- 
band  

Nora.     Have  you  heard  already  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Yes,  I  have  just  got  the  letter.  Per- 
haps he  is  not  at  home? 

Nora.  Yes,  he  is;  but  Doctor  Rank  is  with  him.  Sit 
down  here  with  me  till  he  comes.  No.  don't  sit  down. 
I'm  so  restless.     Let  us  walk  up  and  down. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Nora  dear,  you're  not  well,  are  you? 

Nora.  Oh,  yes,  oh,  yes.  So  you've  heard  from  him  ? 
You  got  the  letter,  you  said  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Yes,  just  as  I  was  going  out.  Oh,  it 
is  a  great  kindness  that  your  husband  has  shown  me. 

Norai     I  hope  it  will  bring  you  happiness. 

Mrs.  Linde.  I  feel  happy  already.  In  my  position 
there  is  no  greater  happiness  than  to  feel  one's  self  secure. 

Nora.  Yes,  you're  right  there;  it  is  a  great  happiness 
to  feel  one's  self  secure. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Ah,  you  can't  appreciate  the  feeling  as 
I  do;  you  have  never  been  tortured  by  insecurity. 

Nora.  Haven't  I?  Have  I  not  been  tortured  by 
anxiety  for  my  husband's  life? 

Mrs.  Linde.  That  is  true.  Well,  fortunately  that 
time  is  past. 


138  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Nora.  Ah,  secure,  secure.  That  is  a  great  thing 
indeed.  There  is  no  greater  happiness  in  the  world. 
(Rings.)  But  who  can  feel  really  secure?  (The  Maid 
appears  at  the  door.)     Bring  in  tea. 

Mrs.  Linde.  So  you're  going  to  a  dance  overhead  to- 
morrow ? 

Nora.  To-morrow?  Yes,  of  course.  I  shall  go  up 
to  it.  It's  to  be  a  children's  party.  I'm  going  for  the 
sake  of  the  children.  (The  Maid  enters  with  tea.) 
Thank  you,  move  the  table  nearer  the  stove.  And  then 
bring  us  the  lamp.  (Exit  Maid.)  Now  then,  you  must 
take  a  seat  and  make  yourself  comfortable. 

Maid  (brings  the  lamp  and  puts  it  on  the  table  by  tlw 
sofa) .     Is  there  anything  else,  ma'am  ? 

Nora.  No,  thank  you.  (Exit  Maid.)  Now  you 
shall  taste  real  tea,  Christina-  I  always  have  the  best 
kind. 

Mrs.  Linde.  And  the  best  of  tea-things  too.  How 
pretty  and  tasteful!     And  how  well  it  all  harmonises! 

Nora.  Yes,  Thorvald  will  have  everything  like  that; 
there  must  be  style  about  it,  he  says,  or  it  offends  his  eye. 
You  see,  the  pattern  on  the  cups  corresponds  to  the 
pattern  on  the  napkins. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Yes,  indeed  you  have  pretty  things. 

Nora.  And  in  future  we  shall  have  them  still  prettier. 
— In  future ! 

Mrs.  Linde.     What  is  the  matter,  Nora? 

Nora.  Hush;  it  was  nothing;  it  was  only  a  pain  in 
the  side.  Look  here;  take  the  footstool  for  your  feet. 
Now  we're  comfortable;    aren't  we? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Yes.  You  really  have  a  talent  for 
making  one  comfortable. 

Nora.     Thorvald  says  the  same. 


A  DOLL'S  HOUSE  139 

Mrs.  Linde.  Ah,  what  would  become  of  your  hus- 
band if  he  had  not  you  ? 

Nora.  If  he  had  not — ?  What  makes  you  think  of 
that?     Why  shouldn't  he  have  me? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Oh,  of  course.  I'm  only  saying,  if  h© 
had  not  you. 

Nora.  Don't  you  think  somebody  could  be  found 
who  would  look  after  him  just  as  well  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Not  in  his  eyes. 

Nora.  Yet  one  often  sees  a  man  able  to  forget  his 
first  wife. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Yes,  and  many  a  wife  can  forget  her 
first  husband. 

Nora.     But  can  you  understand  that,  Christina  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Oh,  well,  it  depends 

Nora.  Ah,  but  divorce,  now;  I  don't  think  I  can 
understand  that. 

Mrs.  Linde.  No.  But  it  happens  nevertheless,  my 
dear  Nora;   and  it  must  happen. 

Nora.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  that;  but  it  seems  to  me  it 
must  be  so  awful,  so  absolutely  impossible  to  get  over ■ 

Mrs.  Linde.  Yes,  it  must  be  a  hard  struggle,  no 
doubt. 

Nora.  To  have  to  leave  one's  house,  everything; 
never  to  be  allowed  to  see  it  again;  to  know  that  every- 
thing is  there,  but  that  one  is  as  it  were  dead  to  it — . 
Tell  me,  Christina,  what  is  it  that  usually  makes  married 
people  separate? 

Mrs.  Linde.  It  may  be  that  they  don't  agree,  or 
that  one  of  them  has  brought  shame  upon  the  other, 

Nora.     Then  the  husband  divorces  his  wife  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Yes,  in  most  cases,  I  suppose. 

Nora.     But  sometimes  he  forgives  her,  doesn't  he  ? 


140  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Linde.  No  doubt;  but  do  you  think  that  would 
be  better? 

Nora.  No,  you  are  right.  It  would  not  be  better. — 
And  the  children,  an  unhappy  divorced  wife  would  not  be 
allowed  to  keep  them  either?     Is  that  really  so? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Yes,  I  believe  so;  that  is,  if  she  is  the 
guilty  party. 

►     Nora.     Oh,  guilty,  guilty;   what  does  it  mean,  being 
guilty  ?     Has  not  a  wife  the  right  to  love  her  husband  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Precisely;  her  husband — and  only  her 
husband. 

Nora.  Yes,  of  course,  who  is  thinking  of  anything 
else?  But  that  law  is  unjust,  Christina.  It  is  easy 
enough  to  see  that  it  was  made  by  men. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Aha!  you  are  beginning  to  go  in  for 
Woman's  Rights.    „ 

Nora.  No,  I  don't  care  about  them  at  all.  Do  you, 
perhaps  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Not  in  the  least.  I  leave  that  to  others; 
I  have  enough  to  do  in  fighting  my  own  battle. 

Nora.     So  have  I. 

Mrs.  Linde.     You  ? 

Nora.  Well,  I  mean — I  think  of  all  the  unhappy 
mothers  and  unhappy  little  children.  Christina,  to 
think  of  one's  little  children  in  the  hands  of  strangers! 

Mrs.  Linde.  That  is  better  than  that  they  should  be 
with  a  criminal  mother. 

Nora.     Oh,  there  are  terrible  things  in  the  world. 
(The  Maid  opens  the  door  to  Krogstad.) 

Maid  (softly) .     Madam ! 

Nora  (turns  and  starts;  in  a  low  and  trembling  voice) . 
There  he  is ! 

Mrs.  Linde  (in  the  same  tone).  He!  What  does  he 
waot> 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  141 

Nora  (to  The  Maid).     It's  all  right;   go. 

(The  Maid  goes  out.     Krogstad  approaches.) 

Krogstad.     I'm  afraid  I'm  disturbing  you,  ladies? 

Nora.     What  do  you  want?     My  husband  is  not  at 
home. 

Krogstad.     But  I  think  he  is  in  there. 

Nora.     Yes,  but  he  can't  see  anyone. 

Krogstad.     He  needn't  either 

Nora.     Go,  Christina;   go  in  to  the  children. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Nora,  what  is  this? 

Nora.     Go,  go,  Christina;  I  must  speak  to  this  man. 

Mrs.  Linde.     I  understand. 

Nora.     Oh,  you  don't  understand  anything. 

Mrs.  Linde.     I  understand.     Krogstad — what  have 
you  come  to? 

Krogstad.     To  what — you  drove  me  to. 

Mrs.  Linde.    Ah 

Krogstad.    It  is  too  late  now. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Krogstad — we  must  talk  by-and-bye. 

Krogstad.     Too  late. 

Nora.     Go,  go 

(Mrs.  Linde  goes  into  the  room  on  the  left.) 

Nora  (in  suspense) .     Now  ? 

Krogstad.     Yes,  now. 

Nora.     Mr.  Krogstad,  you  won't  do  it. 

Krogstad.     Did  he  hesitate  to  do  what  he  did? 

Nora.     Ah,  but  that  was  not  my  fault. 

Krogstad.     The  wife  must  suffer  for  the  husband's 
fault. 

Nora.     Oh,  you  don't  know  how  I  fought  and  pleaded 
your  cause. 

Krogstad.    Did  you  do  that  from  sympathy  with  me  ? 

Nora.     Oh,  I've  been  fighting  for  my  life  these  last 
days. 


142  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Krogstad.  Bah,  for  your  life!  I  too  thought  that 
my  life  was  at  stake  when  I  got  into  trouble — but  you 
see,  Mrs.  Helmer,  I  have  survived  it. 

Nora.     Yes,  you — but  how ? 

Krogstad.     How ? 

Nora.     But  I  can't  live  such  a  life  as — as 

Krogstad.     As  I  do,  you  mean 

Nora.     Pardon  me 

Krogstad.  You'll  see,  you'll  get  along  all  right  in 
time. 

Nora.     Mr.  Krogstad,  think  of  my  little  children 

Krogstad.  Did  your  husband  think  of  my  children, 
when  he  closed  my  last  road  to  recovery  ? 

Nora.  O  God,  O  God,  to  die  so  young — to  have  to 
leave  my  husband  and  children 

Krogstad.  And  you  want  me  to  believe  that  you  have 
the  courage  to  die — ha,  ha! 

Nora.     You  don't  believe  it? 

Krogstad.     Do  you  believe  it  yourself? 

Nora.  I  have  thought  of  nothing  else  the  last  few 
days. 

Krogstad.  I  dare  say.  But  the  means  ?  Poison  ? 
Not  so  easy  to  get.  Shoot  yourself  ?  That  wants  some 
practice,  Mrs.  Helmer.  Hanging?  Fie,  there's  some- 
thing ugly  about  it — you  get  cut  down;  you  would  never 
bring  yourself  to  do  that. 

Nora.     Do  you  hear  it  roaring  ? 

Krogstad.  The  river  ?  Yes,  of  course,  that  is  what 
you've  been  thinking  of.  But  haven't  you  thought  just 
casually — Think  now  of  putting  it  into  execution — Out 
•f  the  house  at  night — down  into  the  foaming  black  water 
— to  be  carried  along,  dragged  under  the  ice — to  struggle, 
be  suffocated,  and  to  be  fished  up — some  day,  from  far 
below — and  in  what  a  state 


A  DOLL'S  HOUSE  143 

Nora.  Oh,  it  is  horrible — oh,  that  I  could  not — Oh, 
it  is  horrible 

Krogstad.     What,  madam ? 

Nora.  You  see  it,  don't  you  ?  It's  no  use  concealing 
it;   I  have  not  the  courage  to  die. 

Krogstad.  I  thought  you  hadn't;  but  I  wanted  to 
make  sure 

Nora.     And  then  ? 

Krogstad.  There  is  no  need  to,  either.  Nobody 
but  your  husband  will  know  anything. 

Nora.     Oh,  but  he  is  the  last  person  who  must 

Krogstad.  I  dare  say  you  have  read  in  novels  of 
villains  whose  only  motive  is  revenge.  Well,  it  might  be 
very  pleasant  if  everyone  could  say:  Look,  the  wife  of 
the  bank  manager  is  not  a  bit  better  than  that  pettifog- 
ger Krogstad,  whom  her  husband  dismissed 

Nora.     But  you  won't  reveal  anything  ? 

Krogstad.  I  can't  afford  to,  Mrs.  Helmer.  In  my 
first  moments  of  despair  I  thought  of  doing  so,  but  I 
can't  afford  it.  I  am  not  like  the  villains  in  romances; 
I  have  four  children  to  support;  they  require  food  and 
clothing.  For  more  than  a  year  and  a  half  I  have  been 
content  with  the  most  straitened  circumstances,  in  order 
to  retrieve  my  character.  Now  your  husband  has  barred 
my  way.  Very  well  then,  I  will  at  any  rate  live,  and 
live  well,  my  children  shall  be  well  looked  after — Here 
is  the  letter — this  will  tell  him  everything — and  then  he 
will  have  an  avalanche  hanging  over  him;  he  will  be  in 
my  power,  I  can  do  what  I  like  with  him — make  what 
demands  I  like;  he  won't  dare  to  show  fight;  it  will  be 
the  dismissed  junior  clerk  that  manages  the  bank 

Nora.     You  will  do  that? 

Krogstad.     That  and  nothing  else. 

Nora.     That  will  be  taking  his  future  away  from  him. 


144  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Krogstad.     He  has  taken  my  future  away  from  me. 

Nora.  This  bank  represents  his  life's  work.  And  he 
is  to  give  it  up  and  become  dependent  on  you. 

Krogstad.     He  will  do  that  for  love  of  you. 

Nora.  The  fault  is  mine.  And  I  did  it  for  love  of 
him. 

Krogstad.  Our  deeds  all  have  offspring — but  the 
progeny  does  not  always  turn  out  as  it  ought. 

Nora.     And  you  can  do  this  thing. 

Krogstad.     I  have  four  children. 

Nora.     Mr.  Krogstad,  you  won't  do  it. 

Krogstad.     Here  is  the  letter. 

Nora.     Give  it  to  me. 

Krogstad.    To  deliver? 

Nora.     Yes,  yes. 

Krogstad.  Thanks;  there  is  a  letter-box  at  the  door; 
it  is  perhaps  safer 

Nora.  You  don't  know  what  this  will  bring  in  its 
train. 

Krogstad.     The  river? 

Nora.  Yes,  now  there  is  nothing  else  for  it.  If  I 
do  not  go  under,  my  husband  will. 

Krogstad.  I  don't  believe  in  romances,  Mrs.  Hel- 
mer. 

Nora.  You  are  a  wretch!  Yes,  you  are  a  wretch. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  you  any  longer,  for  now  I  have  no 
choice 

Krogstad.  Oh  yes,  you  have — if  only  your  husband 
yields 

Nora.  He  will  not — he  shall  never  be  tempted  to  do 
so.     Now  I  have  courage  for  anything. 

Krogstad.     Bah 

Nora.     Away  from  this  home  that  you  have  ruined. 

Krogstad.    I  ?    Not  you  ? 


A  DOLL'S  HOUSE  145 

Nora.  What  I  did  was  done  for  love  of  my  father 
and  my  husband. 

Krogstad.  And  what  I  am  doing  is  done  for  love  of 
my  children. 

Nora.     This  will  bring  no  blessing  upon  your  children. 

Krogstad.     You  think  not? 

Nora.  You  will  see  what  this  deed  brings  in  its 
train. 

Krogstad.     Bah! 

Nora.  You  will  see;  you  feel  it  yourself — you  are 
cowardly — you  dare  not — you're  going,  you're  taking  the 
letter  with  you. 

Krogstad  (at  ilie  hall  door).     Bah!     (Goes  out.) 

Nora.  Wretch! — Ah — the  letter.  In  the  box. — There 
it  lies. 

(Mrs.  Linde  enters  from  the  room  on  the  left.) 

Mrs.  Linde.     Hasn't  he  gone  ? 

Nora.     Yes. 

Mrs.  Linde.     And  he  won't  come  back? 

Nora.     He  will  never  come  back  any  more. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Nora,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 
What  is  there  behind  all  this  ? 

Nora.  Nothing  at  all;  but  don't  tell  my  husband 
that  he  was  here. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Nora,  you  and  he  have  some  secret  be- 
tween you. 

Nora  (smiling).  Yes,  of  course;  a  secret  under- 
standing. 

Mrs.  Linde.  If  you  were  really  joking,  you  would 
not  be  so  deadly  pale. 

Nora.     Can  you  see  that? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Your  husband  will  also  be  able  to  see  it. 

Nora.  My  husband  shall  not  see  anything;  I  have 
more  faces  than  one. 


146  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Linde.  Nora,  Nora,  you  are  surrounding  your- 
self with  hollowness. 

Nora.     Oh,  but  isn't  it  beautiful  here? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Without  truth? 

Nora.     Truth  ?     We  may  not  think  of  that. 

Mrs.  Linde.     But  would  it  not  be  better  if  you  could  ? 

Nora.  We  must  not  ask  too  much;  we  must  be  sat- 
isfied with  a  little;  soon  I  shall  have  to  be  satisfied 
with 

Mrs.  Linde.     With ? 

Nora.     With  nothing. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Nora,  it  is  no  use  concealing  anything 
from  me.  I  understand  it  all.  What  you  told  me  the 
first  time.     This  secret  with  Krogstad— — 

Nora.     Well,  what  then  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  I — I  used  "to  know  him  long  ago.  I 
have  reasons  for  wanting  to  know  this.  Is  he  a  bad,  a 
despicable  person  ? 

Nora.  I  don't  know;  I  only  know  that  he  is  ter- 
rible. 

Mrs.  Linde.     From  what  do  you  know  that? 

Nora  (opening  the  door  to  the  hall).  Look;  there  is 
a  letter  in  the  box. 

Mrs.  Linde.     From  him  ? 

Nora.     Yes. 

Mrs.  Linde.     To  your  husband? 

Nora.     Yes. 

Mrs.  Linde.     I  must  speak  to  Krogstad. 

Nora.     It  is  too  late. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Who  knows  ? 

Nora.     Too  late,  I  tell  you — there  lies  the  letter, 

Mrs.  Linde.     Good-bye.     (Goes  out  at  tJie  back.) 

Nora.     No,  no;  I'm  dreaming.     All  this  is  a  dream* 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  147 

(Looks  out  into  the  hall.)     Yes,  there  it  lies.     The  whole 
story  is  in  there. 

(Helmer  and  Doctor  Rank  enter  from  the  room 
on  the  right.) 

Nora.  Are  you  coming  at  last,  Thorvald  ?  I'm  so 
glad  you've  come.  Shame  on  you,  Doctor,  for  keeping 
him  so  long > 

Helmer.  We  had  something  to  talk  about.  How  is 
my  little  song-bird? 

Nora.  The  song-bird  is  very  well;  you  can  see  that, 
can't  you  ? 

Helmer.  Yes,  I  think  so  too —  (To  Rank.)  But 
what  can  it  be,  then ? 

Rank.     H'm 

Nora.     What?     Which? 

Helmer.     Oh,  nothing  at  all. 

Nora.  Oh  yes,  I  know.  Just  think,  Doctor  Rank 
insists  that  I  shall  be  ill. 

Helmer.  Yes,  that's  it;  it's  all  nonsense.  We  be 
ill  ?  Would  this  be  a  time — now  that  we  have  everything 
we  have  wished  for  so  long  ?  Now  we  are  going  to  keep 
New  Year's  Eve  in  peace  and  harmony.  All  business 
is  to  wait  till  the  new  year. 

Nora.     Yes,  isn't  it,  Thorvald  ? 

Helmer.  Yes,  I  won't  touch  either  pen  or  book  to- 
night.    But,  by-the-bye,  I  must  just 

(Going  to  hall  door!) 

Nora.     Where  are  you  going? 

Helmer.     Just  to  see  if  there  are  any  letters. 

Nora.     No,  no,  Thorvald 

Helmer.     Why  not  ? 

Nora.  No,  no,  I  beg  you  not  to — there  are  none 
there 

Helmer.     Let  me  just  see. 


148  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Nora  (plays  a  few  chords  at  the  piano). 

Helmer  (stops  at  the  door).     Aha! 

Nora.     Do  you  know  it  ? 

Helmer.     Will  you  really  ? 

Nora.     What  shall  I  have  for  a  reward? 

Helmer.     What  do  you  want  ? 

Nora.     I'll  tell  you  afterwards. 

Helmer.     No,  now. 

Nora.     No,  afterwards.     Do  you  promise  me? 

Helmer.     Is  it  something  you  have  asked  me  before  ? 

Nora.     No,  never.     Now  do  you  promise? 

Helmer.  Yes,  I  promise.  (To  Rank.)  Now  listen 
to  this.  But  we  must  have  cigarettes  with  it;  real  Turk- 
ish ones. 

(He  and  Rank  sit  by  the  stove.     Nora  plays  and 
sings  Anitra's  song  from  Peer  Gynt.) 

Mrs.  Linde  (enters  from  the  hall).  Oh,  but  what  is 
this? 

Nora.     Don't  interrupt. 

Helmer.  A  picture  of  family  life.  What  do  you  say 
to  it? 

Rank.     Turkish,  but  pretty;   is  it  not? 

Nora.  Sit  down  to  the  piano,  Christina;  go  on  play- 
ing.    (She  drapes  herself  in  shawls  and  dances.) 

Helmer.  How  lovely  she  is,  Rank.  Look  at  the  fine 
curve  of  the  neck.  What  grace  in  her  movements,  and 
she  is  quite  unconscious  of  it. 

Rank.     A  wife  is  a  good  thing. 

Helmer.     A  wife  like  her. 

Nora.     Are  you  pleased? 

Helmer.     Thanks! 

Nora.     Was  it  pretty? 

Helmer.     Thanks,  thanks! 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  149 

The  Maid  {enters  from  the  right).     Dinner  is  ready. 

Helmer.     Good.     But  business  first 

(Opens  the  door  to  the  hall.') 

Nora.     Where  are  you  going  ? 

Helmer.     To  look  in  the  letter-box. 

Nora.     No,  no. 

Helmer.     There's  a  letter  in  it. 

Nora.     Don't  take  it  out!     Let  it  lie  there. 

Helmer.  But,  my  dear  Nora — ;  aha,  it's  from 
Krogstad. 

Nora.  Thorvald,  if  you  take  it  out,  I'll  jump  out  of 
the  window. 

Helmer.     But,  Nora 

Rank.     H'm,  Helmer 

Helmer.  What  is  it,  Nora?  What  is  the  matter 
with  you  ? 

Nora.  Oh,  nothing,  but  I  want  you  all  to  myself. 
No  business  this  evening — oh,  you  know  very  well  what 
he  is  writing  about 

Helmer.  Yes,  exactly;  but  I  should  like  to  see  all 
the  same. 

Nora.  You  promised  me  what  I  asked.  So  now, 
you  are  not  to  open  the  letter-box  this  evening,  nor  to- 
morrow either 

Helmer.     But,  my  dear  little  Nora 

Nora.     He  promised,  Doctor,  didn't  he  ? 

Rank.     Yes,  you  are  bound,  Helmer. 

Nora.  No  worries  on  holidays — and  to-morrow  you 
won't  have  any  time  for  business;  visits  all  day  long,  and 
the  party  upstairs  in  the  evening 

Helmer.  Very  well,  so  be  it.  To-day  and  to-morrow 
I  exist  for  you — but  I  give  you  notice — to-morrow,  after 
midnight 


150  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Linde.  Oh,  you  surely  don't  work  after  mid- 
night  

Helmer.  I  am  accustomed  to  it,  Mrs.  Linde,  But 
now  let  us  go  to  dinner  and  drink  to  the  old  year  and 
to  all  our  hopes  in  the  new. 

Nora.  Lead  the  way.  Help  me  to  *9ke  off  all  tlrs 
finery,  Christina. 

Rank  (to  Helmer,  as  tJiey  go  out).  You  see,  she  is  not 
at  all  normal. 

Helmer.  I  assure  you,  it  is  nothing  but  anxiety 
about  me;   she  has  a  foolish  terror  of  that  man. 

(Tliey  go  out.) 

Nora.     Well? 

Mrs.  Linde.     He's  gone  away  already. 

Nora.     I  told  you  so. 

Mrs.  Lestde.     But  he'll  Be  back  to-morrow. 

Nora.  How  will  that  help  ?  Thorvald  has  seen  the 
letter. 

Mrs.  Lende.  He  does  not  know  what  is  in  \*'  we 
must  get  hold  of  it. 

Nora.     Krogstad  will  write  another. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Is  it  so  bad  then? 

Nora.  No,  no,  certainly  not;  it  is  silly  of  me.  Don't 
let  them  see  anything  in  your  manner.  Go  in  to  them; 
I'll  manage  myself. 

(Mrs.  Linde  goes  into  the  dining-room) 

Nora  (taking  off  ilie  shawls).  Thorvald  in  his  power  ? 
no,  thank  you,  I  didn't  save  his  life  for  that.  But — no, 
no,  there  is  no  going  back  now.  (Looks  at  the  clock.) 
Five.  Seven  hours  till  midnight.  Then  twenty-four 
hours  till  the  next  midnight.  Twenty-four  and  seven? 
Thirty-one  hours  to  live.     (She  goes  out.) 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  151 


THIRD  ACT 


The  same  room.  A  lighted  lamp  on  the  table  in  front. 
Mrs.  Linde  sits  by  the  table  and  absently  turns  the 
pages  of  a  booh.  She  tries  to  read,  but  seems  unable 
to  fix  her  attention;  she  frequently  listens  and  looks 
anxiously  towards  tlie  hall;  then  looks  at  her  watch.) 

Mrs.  Linde  (jumping  up).  What!  Already?  No, 
it  is  not 

Nora  (enters  in  evening  dress).  What!  Christina, 
are  you  here  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Oh,  is  that  you,  Nora? 

Nora.     Are  you  sitting  here,  Christina? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Yes,  I  wanted  to  see  you  dressed;  but 
I  came  too  late.  It  was  cold  at  my  rooms,  and  so  I 
stayed  sitting  here. 

Nora.     I  see;   but  you  must  go  again 

Mrs.  Linde.     Why? 

Nora.     Yes,  yes,  you  must  go. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Have  you  left  the  party  so  early  ? 

Nora.  Yes,  I  could  not  bear  it;  it  was  so  hot  and 
stifling.     (Helmer  enters  from  the  hall.) 

Helmer.  But,  my  dear  Nora,  what  is  the  meaning 
of  this  ?  Are  you  leaving  the  party  so  early  ?  And  with- 
out saying  good-bye?     Ah,  good  evening,  Mrs.  Linde! 

Nora.  Yes,  I  had  to.  I  knew  Christina  was  here. 
She  came  to  see  my  new  dress. 

Helmer.    Well,  but  come  up  again ;  it  looks  so  bad 

Nora.  Yes,  yes,  I'll  go  up  and  fetch  the  children — 
but  then —  Oh,  I  can't  stay  long,  Thorvald;  but  you 
must  stay;  dance  and  amuse  yourself — promise  me  that. 

Helmer.  Yes,  yes — only  do  come.  Good-night, 
Mrs.  Linde — and  excuse  us. 


152  FROM   IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Nora.  Good-night,  Christina — good-night,  good-bye 
— you  must  not  sit  here  any  longer,  with  your  weak 
eyes.  Now  you  have  seen  my  dress.  Don't  you  think 
it  suits  me  very  well  ?  When  you  think  of  me — then 
remember  me  as  I  am  now.  Good-night — good-bye, 
Christina — good-bye 

Mrs.  Linde.     Good-night,  my  dear  Nora. 

Helmer.     Come,  come,  we  must  go. 

Nora.     Good-night,  good-bye. 

(Helmer  and  Nora  go  out  through  the  hall.) 

Mrs.  Linde  (listens  for  a  moment).  What  terrible 
mental  anguish!  And  he  does  not  see  it.  He  under- 
stands   nothing. — But    the    time — if    he    should    not— 

(Listens.)     Ah (Opens  the  door  into  the  hall;  three 

soft  knocks  are  heard  on  the  outer  door;   Mrs.  Linde 
opens  it.     Krogstad  enters.) 

Mrs.  Linde.     Come  in  here.     There  is  no  one  here. 

Krogstad.  You  have  written  to  me.  What  does  it 
mean? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Yes,  I  had  to;  I  could  not  see  you  at 
my  rooms — there  is  nobody  at  home  here. 

Krogstad.     Have  we  anything  to  say  to  each  other? 

Mrs.  Linde.     A  great  deal. 

Krogstad.     I  should  not  have  thought  so. 

Mrs.  Linde.     You  have  never  understood  me. 

Krogstad.  What  was  there  to  understand  that  was 
not  perfectly  plain  ?  So  many  men  are  thrown  over  when 
a  better  match  offers. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Do  you  think  I  broke  with  you  lightly  ? 

Krogstad.     Did  you  not? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Do  you  really  think  so  ? 

Krogstad.     Why  then  did  you  write  me  that  letter? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Could  I  do  anything  else?  Was  not 
everything  to  be  broken  off  between  us  ? 


A  DOLL'S  HOUSE  153 

Krogstad.     Yes,  for  the  sake  of  profit. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Do  you  forget  that  I  had  a  helpless 
mother  and  two  little  brothers?  You  had  no  prospects 
at  all. 

Krogstad.     Did  that  give  you  the  right  to  cast  me  off  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  I  don't  know.  I  have  often  asked  my- 
self whether  I  had  the  right. 

Krogstad.  When  I  had  lost  you,  I  seemed  to  lose 
all  firm  footing  in  life.  Look  at  me  now.  I  am  a  ship- 
wrecked man  clinging  to  a  spar. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Rescue  may  be  at  hand. 

Krogstad.     You  can  say  that,  when  you  are  helping 
to  loosen  my  hold? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Do  you  think  I  shall  do  that  ? 

Krogstad.  Are  you  not  in  league  with  my  persecu- 
tors ? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Oh  ?     And  why  do  you  think  that  ? 

Krogstad.  It  won't  be  the  first  time  that  hatred  is 
felt  for  one  who  has  been  wronged. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Krogstad,  you  don't  think  that  of  me  ? 

Krogstad.  Then  what  am  I  to  believe?  Are  you 
not  taking  the  place  that  I  have  lost? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Yes. 

Krogstad.     And  could  you  do  that  if ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  I  have  learnt  prudence;  life  and  bitter 
necessity  have  schooled  me. 

Krogstad.  And  life  has  taught  me  not  to  trust  fine 
speeches. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Then  life  has  taught  you  a  very  sensi- 
ble thing.     But  deeds  you  will  trust? 

Krogstad.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  You  said  you  were  a  shipwrecked  mac, 
clinging  to  a  spar. 

Krogstad.    I  have  good  reason  to  say  so. 


154  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Linde.  I  too  am  shipwrecked,  and  clinging  to 
a  spar;   I  have  no  one  to  mourn  for,  no  one  to  care  for. 

Krogstad.     You  make  your  own  choice. 

Mrs.  Linde.  Do  not  let  us  dispute  about  that;  for  me 
there  was  no  choice  left. 

Krogstad.     Well,  what  then  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Nils,  how  if  we  two  shipwrecked  people 
could  join  hands? 

Krogstad.     What  do  vou  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Two  on  one  raft  have  a  better  chance 
than  if  each  clings  to  a  separate  spar. 

Krogstad.     Christina! 

Mrs.  Linde.     What  do  you  think  brought  me  here  ? 

Krogstad.     Could  it  be ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  I  must  have  work,  or  I  can't  bear  to 
live;  I  have  worked  all  my  life,  and  it  has  been  my  one 
great  happiness.  Now  I  stand  alone,  aimless  and  for- 
lorn. There  is  no  happiness  in  working  for  one's  self. 
Nils,  give  me  somebody  and  something  to  work  for. 

Krogstad.  I  cannot  believe  in  all  this.  It  is  a 
woman's  romantic  craving  for  self-sacrifice. 

Mrs.  Linde  {smiling).  H'm,  I  am  the  last  person  to 
be  called  romantic. 

Krogstad.  And  you  could — ?  Do  you  know  all 
that  is  said  about  me? 

Mrs.  Linde.  You  said  that  with  me  you  would  have 
been  another  man. 

Krogstad.     Well ? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Is  it  too  late  ? 

Krogstad.  Christina,  have  you  thought  what  you 
are  doing?     Will  you — ?     Will  you* ? 

*  Krogstad  here  changes  from  the  formal  De  to  the 
intimate  du  (thou). 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  155 

Mrs.  Linde.  I  need  some  one  to  be  a  mother  to, 
and  your  children  need  a  mother.  You  need  me,  and  I 
need  you.  You  told  me  you  wanted  to  show  the  world 
that  some  one  will  trust  you  in  a  post  of  confidence. 
I  will. 

Krogstad.  Now,  Christina,  I  shall  raise  myself. — 
Ah,  I  forgot — ;  the  whole  thing  is  impossible 

Mrs.  Linde.     Why? 

Krogstad.  You  don't  know — ;  I  have  taken  a  step 
against  this  house 

Mrs.  Linde.     I  know. 

Krogstad.     You  know  it? 

Mrs.  Lende.  And  I  know  to  what  lengths  despair 
can  drive  a  man. 

Krogstad.     Oh,  if  I  could  only  undo  it! 

Mrs.  Linde.  You  could.  Your  letter  is  still  in  the 
box. 

Krogstad.     Are  you  sure  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.     Yes;   but 

Krogstad.  Now  I  understand.  You  want  to  save 
your  friend  at  any  price.     Say  it  out — is  that  your  idea  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Nils,  a  woman  who  has  once  sold  her- 
self for  the  sake  of  others,  does  not  do  so  again. 

Krogstad.     The  letter  shall  be  got  back  again. 

Mrs.  Linde.     No,  no. 

Krogstad.  There  is  still  time.  I  shall  wait  here, 
ask  for  it,  say  that  it  is  about  my  dismissal — but  that  I 
have  accepted  the  situation- 

Mrs.  Linde.     You  must  not  recall  it. 

Krogstad.  But  wasn't  it  about  the  letter  that  you 
got  me  to  come  here? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Yes,  in  my  first  moment  of  terror; 
but  a  day  has  passed  since  then.  Helmer  must  know 
everything.     This  unhappy  secret  will  undermine  their 


156  FROM   IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

marriage  if  it  is  allowed  to  remain.  There  must  be  per- 
fect frankness.  These  shifts  and  subterfuges  lead  to 
ruin. 

Krogstad.  Christina,  your  friend  has  not  told  you 
everything. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Is  there  more  than  the  debt ? 

Krogstad.     H'm 

Mrs.  Linde.  Make  haste!  Go,  go! — some  one  is 
coming  downstairs.  Wait  for  me  at  the  door  [in  the 
street];  you  must  see  me  to  my  door. 

Krogstad.  I  shall  wait;  and  you  will  see.  Oh, 
Christina,  thanks,  thanks,  you  have  made  a  new  man  of 
me.     (He  goes  out  quickly.) 

Mrs.    Linde    (putting  on  her  outdoor  things).     He 

thanks  me,  and  it  is  I — ;   now  there  is  work  to  do 

(Nora   enters   with   the  two  elder  children.     The 
Nurse  has  tlie  youngest  on  her  arm). 

Nora.     What;   are  you  still  here  ? 

Mrs.  Linde.  Good-night;  I  have  a  great  deal  to 
talk  to  you  about  to-morrow. 

Nora.     To-morrow ! 

Mrs.  Linde.  Believe  me,  Nora,  it  is  a  good  thing  to 
speak  out 

Nora.     Yes,  yes.     Good-night. 

Mrs.  Linde.     Good-night. 

Nora.     A  thousand  times  good-night.     Good-bye. 

(Mrs.  Linde  goes  out.) 

Nora.  Put  them  to  bed,  Anna — they  are  so  tired  and 
sleepy — Oh,  look  after  them  well.  Yvhat  do  you  say? 
Stay  a  little  while  with  mamma  ?  No,  no — that  won't  do 
— you  can't  be  with  mamma — Good-night — oh,  once 
more — Good-night — good-night — there — now  you  must 

go  in — good-night,  all  of  you 

(The  Nurse  goes  out  with  tlie  children!) 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  157 

Nora.  Oh,  never  to  see  them  again!  Never — 
never 

Helmer  (enters).  There — now  it  is  over.  Have 
they  gone  to  bed  ? 

Nora.     Yes,  directly. 

Helmer.     You  are  tired? 

Nora.     Oh,  yes,  a  little. 

Helmer.  After  this  my  little  Nora  must  take  care  of 
herself.     It  will  be  good  to  take  a  long  rest,  won't  it  ? 

Nora.     Yes,  I  almost  think  it  will. 

Helmer.     Only  "almost"? 

Nora.     Yes,  yes,  it  will  be  good. 

Rank  (enters).     May  I  come  in  so  late  as  this? 

Helmer.     Oh,  is  it  you  ?     Yes,  come  in. 

Rank.  I  didn't  get  a  chance  of  saying  good-bye  to 
you  upstairs,  and  as  I  knew  you  were  a  pair  of  night- 
birds 

Helmer.  Yes,  I  have  a  couple  of  hours'  work  to  do 
yet.  Well,  you  seemed  to  be  enjoying  yourself  this 
evening. 

Rank.  Yes,  why  not?  One  doesn't  like  to  forego 
one's  last  chance. 

Helmer.     Last?     Why  should  it  be  the  last? 

Rank.  Why  ?  Ah,  you  must  ask  certain  mysterious 
powers  about  that.  But  it  is  the  last,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned. 

Helmer.     But  my  dear  Rank 

Rank.  I  feel  it.  There's  no  help  for  it.  I'm  going 
home  to  bed  now  and  shall  not  get  up  again.  No,  no, 
it  is  so;  I  am  perfectly  clear  upon  it.  That  is  why  I 
wanted  to  say  good-bye 

Helmer.  Oh,  but  of  course  I  shall  come  and  see  you 
ever}7  day 


158  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rank.  You're  not  to  do  that — not  on  any  account. 
I  won't  have  it.  There's  something  ugly  about  a  death- 
bed. A  sick-room  is  hideous;  the  poisoned  air,  the 
patient's  failing  strength,  his  altered  appearance,  his 
drawn,  yellow  skin,  glassy  eyes — .  No,  no,  promise  me 
you  won't  come,  Helmer.  I  don't  want  to  be  associated 
in  your  memory  with  such  impressions. 

Helmer.     Do  you  think  it  will  be  protracted  ? 

Rank.  Hardly.  I  was  going  to  say,  unfortunately. 
Yes,  isn't  it  strange  how  we  hang  on  to  our  wretched 
lives  ?  I  who  am  a  doctor  and  could  so  easily  put  an  end 
to  the  whole  business;  a  few  drops  out  of  a  bottle — ; 
a  slit  with  the  lancet  here  over  the  artery 


Helmer.     But,  Rank — what  are  you  thinking  of « 

Rank.  I  haven't  the  cqurage  to  do  it;  I  swear  I 
haven't  the  courage.  I  prefer  to  lie  and  suffer  and  die 
by  inches.  But  at  any  rate  there  may  be  some  interest- 
ing observations  to  be  made.  One  can't  very  well  ex- 
periment with  other  patients  toward  the  end.  There 
is  never  anything  definite  to  be  learnt  from  them.  But 
on  one's  self — yes,  my  friends,  that  is  the  only  thing  I 
have  left  to  look  forward  to.  That,  and  my  good  cigars; 
I  can  smoke  them.  Well,  good-bye  now,  and  thanks  for 
all  your  kindness.  May  you  have  a  long  life  before 
you.  Now,  now,  Mrs.  Helmer — don't  let  us  be  senti- 
mental, don't  let  us  have  any  scenes — Good-bye 

Helmer.     Rank,  I  shall  come  and  see  you. 

Rank.  You  won't  get  in.  Hang  it,  man,  what  have 
you  got  to  do  with  death — at  present?  You  are  a 
healthy,  happy  man — no,  no,  it's  not  for  you  to  see. 
Good-bye  then,  and  may  it  be  many  years  before  you 
follow  me.     (He  goes  out.) 

Helmer.     This  will  be  a  hard  blow  for  us,  Nora! 

Nora.     Yes. 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  159 

Helmer.  He  had  so  grown  into  our  lives,  I  can't 
realise  that  he  is  gone.  He  and  his  sufferings  and  his 
loneliness  formed  a  sort  of  cloudy  background  to  the  sun 
shine  of  our  happiness.  Well,  perhaps  it's  best  as  it  is. 
At  any  rate  for  him.  And  perhaps  for  us  too.  (He 
goes  into  the  hall  and  takes  a  key  from  his  pocket.) 

Nora.     Thorvald — what  are  you  doing  ? 

Helmer.  Emptying  the  letter-box.  Why,  how  is 
this  ?     Has  anyone  been  at  the  lock  ? 

Nora.     The  lock ? 

Helmer.  I'm  sure  of  it.  What  does  it  mean?  I 
can't  think  that  the  servants — here  is  a  bit  of  a  hair-pin 
— Nora,  it's  one  of  yours 


Nora.     It  must  have  been  the  children- 


Helmer.  Yes,  of  course — you  must  break  them  of 
such  tricks.  H'm,  h'm — there,  I've  got  it  open. — Just 
see  how  they've  accumulated. 

Nora.     Are  you  going  to  work  now? 

Helmer.  Yes,  I  must.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  sleep 
anyhow — I  can't  get  what  Rank  told  us  out  of  my  head. 
There,  there,  my  sweet  little  Nora;  I  see  it  has  shaken 
you  too.  But  you  must  struggle  against  it;  it  is  not 
good  for  you.  You  must  be  happy  and  joyous,  my 
little  song-bird.  Is  not  that  what  you  were  born  for? 
It  did  not  come  upon  us  unexpectedly.  We  have  long 
been  prepared.  And,  as  I  said,  perhaps  it's  best  as  it 
is — for  us.  Now  we  two  are  thrown  entirely  upon 
each  other.  There,  there,  don't  be  so  moved,  Nora; 
there  is  something  unlovely  in  it.  We  will  not  let  our 
happiness  be  taken  from  us.  Now  we  have  everything; 
an  independent  position.  How  I  am  looking  forward  to 
beginning  my  work;  to  be  my  own  independent  master 
— to  work  with  free  hands. 

Nora.     Yes,  yes,  you  shall,  Thorvald! 


160  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Helmer.  I'll  go  into  my  room  for  a  while.  Good- 
night, my  sweet  little  Nora;  don't  sit  up  too  long.  You 
are  badly  in  want  of  rest. 

Nora.  Yes,  I  intend  to — go  now,  Thorvald;  good- 
night;  I  shall  soon  have  finished. 

Helmer.  Good-night,  my  little  lark.  And  to-mor- 
row we  begin  a  new  life.  Good-night;  sleep  well.  Now 
I  shall  read  my  letters.  (He  goes  with  the  letters  in  his 
hand  into  his  room.) 

Nora  (looks  around  with  wild  eyes;  takes  a  step 
towards  Hclmer's  room,  but  stops  again;  in  a  low  voice.) 
Thorvald,  Thorvald,  Thorvald !  Never  to  see  him  again ! 
The  children;  never  to  see  them  again.  The  black,  icy 
water.  Oh,  can  I  do  it!  Oh,  if  it  were  over!  What's 
that  ?  Has  he  opened  it  ?  >  Is  he  reading  it  ? — Good- 
bye, my  home,  my  home,  good-bye  to  him  and  my  little 
ones! 

(She  has  thrown  a  large  shawl  over  her  head  and  is 
hurrying  out  by  the  Jiall.  At  the  same  moment 
Helmer  flings  his  door  open,  and  stands  there 
with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand.) 

Helmer.     Nora! 

Nora  (with  a  shriek).     Ah ! 

Helmer.     Nora,  what  is  this 

Nora.     I'm  going — you  see  that  I'm  going. 

Helmer  (holds  her  back).  Where  do  you  want  to  go? 
Do  you  know  what  this  wretch  writes  ? 

Nora.     Yes,  but  kill  me!     Strike  me! 

Helmer.     Nora! 

Nora.     Let  me  go — I'm  going! 

Helmer.  Awful!  Is  what  he  writes  true?  No,  no, 
it  is  impossible  that  this  can  be  true. 

Nora.     What  are  you  going  to  do  to  me? 

Helmer.     Wretched  woman;   what  have  you  done! 


A  DOLL'S  HOUSE  161 

Nora.     Let  me  get  away.     Let  me  go. 

Helmer  (locks  tlie  door).  I  don't  want  any  melodra- 
matic airs.  Here  you  shall  stay  and  give  an  account  of 
yourself. — Do  you  know  what  you  have  done  ? — Answer! 
Do  you  know? 

Nora.     Yes,  now  I  know. 

Helmer.  Oh!  what  an  awful  awakening!  During 
all  these  eight  years — she  who  was  my  pride  and  my  joy 
— a  hypocrite,  a  liar — worse,  worse — a  criminal — oh,  the 

unfathomable  hideousness  of  it — ugh,  ugh 

(Nora  says  nothing.) 

Helmer.  I  ought  to  have  foreseen  it,  guessed  it. 
All  your  father's  want  of  principle — be  silent! — all  your 
father's  want  of  principle  you  have  inherited.  No  re- 
ligion, no  morality,  no  sense  of  duty.  How  I  am  punished 
for  screening  him!  I  did  it  for  your  sake,  and  I  am  re- 
warded like  this. 

Nora.     Yes, — like  this. 

Helmer.  You  have  destroyed  my  whole  happiness, 
my  whole  future.  I  am  in  the  power  of  a  scoundrel. 
He  can  do  whatever  he  pleases  with  me,  demand  what- 
ever he  chooses;   and  I  must  submit. 

Nora.     When  I  am  out  of  the  world,  you  will  be  free. 

Helmer.  Oh,  no  fine  phrases.  Your  father,  too, 
was  always  ready  with  them.  What  good  would  it  do, 
if  you  were  gone  ?  None.  If  he  publishes  the  story,  no 
one  will  doubt  that  I  was  in  collusion  with  you.  People 
will  think  I  egged  you  on.  You  have  undermined  my 
whole  position,  my  whole  life's  work.  I  must  hold  my 
tongue  and  serve  him,  or  else  I  shall  be  ruined.  Do 
you  understand  now  what  you  have  done  to  me  ? 

Nora.     Yes. 

Helmer.  The  thing  is  so  incredible,  I  can't  grasp  it. 
But  we  must  come  to  an  understanding.     Take  that 


162  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

shawl  off!  Take  it  off,  I  say.  I  must  try  to  pacify  him 
in  one  way  or  another — the  matter  must  be  hushed  up. 
There  must  be  no  outward  change  in  our  way  of  life — 
no  outward  change,  vou  understand.  The  children  can- 
not  be  left  in  your  care;  I  dare  not  trust  them  to  ycu. 
Oh,  to  have  to  say  this  to  one  I  have  loved  so  tenderly! 
But  that  is  a  thing  of  the  past;  henceforward  there  can 
be  no  question  of  happiness,  but  merely  of  saving  the 
ruins,  the  shreds,  the  show.  (A  ring;  Helmer  starts.) 
What's  that?     So  late!     Can  it  be  the  worst — !     Can 

he — !     Hide  yourself 

(Nora  stands  motionless.     He  goes  to  tlie  door  and 
opens  it.) 

The  Maid  (in  the  hall).  Here  is  a  letter  for  you, 
ma'am. 

Helmer.  Give  it  here.  (He  seizes  the  letter  and  shuts 
the  door.)     Yes,  from  him.     Look  there. 

Nora.     Read  it. 

Helmer.  I  have  hardly  the  courage.  I  fear  the 
worst.  We  may  both  be  lost,  both  you  and  I.  Ah!  I 
must  know.  (Hastily  tears  the  letter  open;  reads  a  few 
lines;   with  a  cry  of  joy.)     Nora! 

(Nora  looks  inquiringly  at  him.) 

Helmer.  Nora! — Oh!  I  must  read  it  again.  Yes, 
yes,  it  is  so.     You  are  saved,  Nora,  you  are  saved. 

Nora.     How,  saved? 

Helmer.  Look  here.  He  sends  you  back  your  prom- 
issory note.  He  writes  that  he  regrets  and  apologises, 
that  a  happy  turn  in  his  life — Oh,  what  matter  what  he 
writes.  We  are  saved,  Nora!  There  is  nothing  to 
witness  against  you.  Oh,  Nora,  Nora — ;  but  first  to  get 
rid  of  this  hateful  thing.  I'll  just  see.  (Glances  at  the 
1.  O.  U.)  No,  I  will  not  look  at  it.  The  whole  thing 
shall  be  nothing  but  a  dream  to  me.     (Tears  the  I.  O.  U. 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  163 

and  both  letters  in  pieces;  throws  Hie  pieces  into  the  fire 
and  watches  them  burn.)  There!  it's  gone!  Oh,  Nora, 
Nora,  what  terrible  days  these  must  have  been  for  you. 

Nora.  I  have  thought  a  great  deal  during  these  last 
few  days,  Thorvald. 

Helmer.  And  in  your  agony  you  saw  no  other  outlet 
but — no,  no;  we  won't  think  of  that  horror.  We  will 
only  rejoice  and  repeat — it's  over,  it's  over!  Don't  you 
hear,  Nora?  You  don't  seem  able  to  grasp  it.  Yes, 
it's  over.  What  is  this  stony  look  on  your  face?  Oh, 
Nora,  I  see  what  it  is;  you  don't  believe  that  I  can  for- 
give you.  Everything  is  forgiven;  I  swear  it.  I  know 
that  what  you  did  was  all  for  love  of  me. 

Nora.     That  is  true. 

Helmer.  You  loved  me  as  a  wife  should  love  her 
husband.  It  was  only  the  means  that,  with  your  lack  of 
knowledge,  you  misjudged.  Do  you  think  I  love  you 
the  less  because  you  cannot  do  without  guidance  ?  No, 
no;  lean  on  me;  I  will  counsel  you,  and  guide  you.  I 
should  be  no  true  man  if  this  very  womanly  helplessness 
did  not  make  you  doubly  dear  in  my  eyes.  You  mustn't 
dwell  upon  the  hard  things  I  said  in  my  first  moment  of 
terror,  when  the  world  seemed  to  be  falling  about  our 
ears.  I  have  forgiven  you,  Nora — I  swear  I  have  for- 
given you. 

Nora.     I  thank  you  for  your  forgiveness. 

(Goes  out  through  the  open  door  on  the  right.) 

Helmer.     No,  stay;   where  are  you  going? 

Nora  (in  the  room  at  the  side).  I  must  collect  myself. 
Only  a  moment. 

Helmer.  Yes,  collect  yourself,  my  scared  little  song- 
bird. I  have  broad  wings  to  shield  you.  Our  home  is 
lovely  and  cosy,  Nora;  here  you  are  safe;  here  I  can  have 
you  for  myself  alone.     You  will  be  to  me  like  a  dove 


164  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

that  has  escaped  unhurt  from  the  claws  of  the  hawk; 
I  shall  bring  your  poor  beating  heart  to  rest;  believe  me, 
Nora,  very  soon.  I  shall  not  need  to  tell  you  again  that 
I  forgive  you.  Soon  you  will  feel  for  yourself  that  it  is 
true.  Oh,  this  very  thing  has  made  you  doubly  dear  to 
me.  How  could  I  find  it  in  my  heart  to  drive  you  away, 
or  even  to  reproach  you  ?  Oh,  you  don't  know  a  true 
man's  heart,  Nora.  There  is  something  indescribably 
sweet  and  soothing  to  a  man  in  having  forgiven  his  wife, 
honestly  forgiven  her  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  Has 
she  not  become  his  property  in  a  double  sense?  She 
is  as  though  born  again.  She  has  become,  so  to  speak, 
at  once  his  wife  and  his  child.  That  is  what  you  shall 
be  to  me  in  the  future,  my  bewildered,  helpless  darling. 
Don't  be  afraid,  Nora;  only  open  your  heart  to  me,  and 
I  will  be  both  will  and  conscience  to  you. — Why,  what's 
this  ?     You  have  changed  your  dress  ? 

Nora  (in  everyday  dress).  Yes,  Thorvald;  now  I 
have  changed  my  dress. 

Helmer.     But  why  ? 

Nora.     I  shall  not  sleep  to-night. 

Helmer.     But,  Nora  dear 

Nora  (looking  at  her  watch) .  It's  not  so  late  yet.  Sit 
down,  Thorvald;  you  and  I  have  much  to  say  to  each 
other.  (She  sits  at  one  side  of  the  table.) 

Helmer.  Nora,  what  does  this  mean  ?  Your  stony 
look  again. 

Nora.  Sit  down.  It  will  take  some  time.  I  have 
much  to  talk  over  with  you. 

(Helmer  sits  opposite  to  her.) 

Helmer.  You  alarm  me,  Nora.  I  don't  understand 
you. 

Nora.  No,  that's  just  it.  You  don't  understand  me; 
and  I  have  never  understood  you — till  to-night.     No, 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  165 

don't  interrupt.  Only  listen  to  what  I  say. — We  must 
come  to  a  final  settlement,  Thorvald. 

Helmer.     How  do  you  mean  ? 

Nora.     Does  not  one  thing  strike  you  as  we  sit  here  ? 

Helmer.     What  should  strike  me? 

Nora.  We  have  been  married  eight  years.  Does 
it  not  strike  you  that  this  is  the  first  time  we  two,  you  and 
I,  man  and  wife,  have  talked  together  seriously  ? 

Helmer.     Seriously !     WTiat  do  you  call  seriously  ? 

Nora.  During  eight  whole  years,  and  more — ever 
since  the  day  we  first  met — we  have  never  exchanged 
one  serious  word  about  serious  things. 

Helmer.  Was  I  always  to  trouble  you  with  the 
cares  you  could  not  help  me  to  bear  ? 

Nora.  I  am  not  talking  of  cares.  I  say  that  we 
have  never  yet  set  ourselves  seriously  to  get  to  the  bot- 
tom of  anything. 

Helmer.  Why,  my  dearest  Nora,  what  have  you  to 
do  with  serious  things? 

Nora.  There  we  have  it!  You  have  never  under- 
stood me. — I  have  had  great  injustice  done  me,  Thor- 
vald;   first  by  father,  and  then  by  you. 

Helmer.  What!  By  your  father  and  me? — By  us, 
who  have  loved  you  more  than  all  the  world  ? 

Nora.  Oh,  you  haven't  ever  loved  me.  You  never 
loved  anything  but  your  own  infatuation  [only  thought 
it  amusing  to  be  in  love  with  me]. 

Helmer.     Why,  Nora,  what  a  thing  to  say! 

Nora.  When  I  was  a  little  girl  of  four  or  five,  father 
said  I  had  such  an  extraordinary  desire  to  learn  French; 
and  he  made  me  learn  long  pieces  by  heart;  then  he 
said  I  had  a  rare  talent  for  writing  verse,  and  I  wrote 
many  verses.  But  I  had  no  wish  either  to  learn  French 
or  to  write  verse;   only  I  believed  I  had,  because  father 


166  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

had  said  so.  Then  he  told  me  that  his  old-fashioned 
furniture  and  high-backed  chairs  with  leather  seats  were 
the  most  handsome;  and  I  thought  they  were.  Then 
he  said  his  high,  white  stock  and  his  gold-headed  cane 
gave  him  a  distinguished  appearance,  and  I  thought  they 
did  so.  Father  used  to  tell  me  all  his  opinions,  and  I 
held  the  same  opinions.  If  I  had  others  I  said  nothing 
about  them,  because  he  wouldn't  have  liked  it.  He 
used  to  call  me  his  doll,  and  played  with  me  as  I  played 
with  my  dolls.     Then  I  came  to  you,  Thorvald 

Helmer.     You  came  to  me  ? 

Nora.  Well,  I  mean  I  passed  from  father's  hands 
into  yours.  You  didn't  want  me  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  French,  because  of  all  the  immoral  books;  nor  did 
you  think  it  the  right  thing*  for  women  to  write  verse. 
But  you  were  fond  of  music,  and  you  liked  me  to  recite 
monologues  that  we  had  heard  at  the  theatre,  and  dress 
myself  up  in  picturesque  costumes.  You  arranged  our 
house  according  to  your  taste,  and  I  got  the  same  tastes 
— or  I  pretended  to,  I  don't  know  which;  or  both  ways, 
perhaps;  sometimes  one  and  sometimes  the  other.  You 
and  father  have  done  me  a  great  wrong.  It  is  your  fault 
that  I  have  got  into  the  habit  of  lying  and  that  my  life 
has  come  to  nothing. 

Helmer.  You  are  unreasonable  and  ungrateful,  Nora! 
Have  you  not  been  happy  here  ? 

Nora.     No.     I  thought  I  was;  but  I  never  was. 

Helmer.     Not — not  happy! 

Nora.  No;  only  merry,  cheerful.  Our  home  has 
been  a  doll's  house.  Here  I  have  been  your  doll,  just 
as  I  used  to  be  father's.  And  the  children,  in  their  turn, 
have  been  my  dolls.  And  I  thought  it  was  amusing  to 
be  played  with  by  you,  just  as  I  thought  it  amusing  to 
play  with  them.     That  has  been  our  marriage,  Thorvald. 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  167 

Helmer.  There  is  some  truth  in  what  you  say,  ex- 
aggerated and  overstrained  though  it  be.  But  hence- 
forth it  shall  be  different.  Play-time  is  over;  now  comes 
the  time  for  education. 

Nora.     Whose  education?     Mine,  or  the  children's? 

Helmer.     Both,  my  dear  Nora. 

Nora.  Oh,  Thorvald,  you  are  not  the  man  to  teach 
me  to  be  a  fit  w'fe  for  you. 

Helmer.     And  you  can  say  that  ? 

Nora.  And  I — how  have  I  prepared  myself  to  edu- 
cate our  children  ? 

Helmer.     Nora! 

Nora.  Did  you  not  say  yourself  just  now,  you  dared 
not  trust  them  to  me? 

Helmer.  In  my  first  excitement.  Why  should  you 
dwell  upon  that? 

Nora.  You  spoke  the  truth.  That  problem  is  be- 
yond me.  There  is  another  to  be  solved  first — I  must 
try  to  educate  myself.  You  are  not  the  man  to  help  me 
in  that.  I  must  set  about  it  alone.  And  that  is  why  I 
am  leaving  you. 

Helmer  (Jumping  up) .  What  —  do  you  mean  to 
say ? 

Nora.  I  must  stand  alone  if  I  am  ever  to  know  my- 
self and  my  surroundings;   so  I  cannot  stay  here. 

Helmer.     Nora,  Nora! 

Nora.  I  am  going  this  evening.  It  is  no  use  post- 
poning such  things.  I  daresay  Christina  will  take  me 
in  for  to-night 

Helmer.  You  are  mad.  I  shall  not  allow  it.  I 
forbid  it. 

Nora.  It  is  of  no  use  your  forbidding  me  anything 
now.  I  shall  take  with  me  what  belongs  to  me.  From 
you  I  wUl  accept  nothing,  either  now  or  afterwards. 


168  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Helmer.     What  madness  is  this! 

Nora.  To-morrow  I  shall  go  home — I  mean  to  what 
was  my  home.  It  will  be  easier  for  me  to  find  some 
opening  there. 

Helmer.     Oh,  in  your  blind  inexperience 

Nora.     I  must  try  to  gain  experience,  Thorvald! 

Helmer.  To  forsake  your  home,  your  husband,  and 
your  children!  And  you  don't  consider  what  the  world 
will  say? 

Nora.  I  can  pay  no  heed  to  that.  I  only  know  that 
I  must  do  it. 

Helmer.  This  is  monstrous!  Can  you  forsake  your 
holiest  duties  in  this  way? 

Nora.     What  do  you  consider  my  holiest  duties  ? 

Helmer.  Do  I  need  to  tell  you  that?  Your  duties 
to  your  husband  and  your  children. 

Nora.     Have  I  not  other  duties  equally  sacred  ? 

Helmer.  Not  in  the  first  rank.  What  duties  do  you 
mean? 

Nora.     My  duties  towards  myself. 

Helmer.     Before  all  else  you  are  a  wife  and  mother. 

Nora.  That  I  no  longer  believe.  I  believe  that  be- 
fore all  else  I  am  a  human  being — or  that  I  should  try  to 
become  one.  I  know  that  most  people  agree  with  you, 
Thorvald,  or  that  they  say  something  of  that  sort.  But 
henceforth  I  can't  be  satisfied  with  what  people  say,  and 
what  is  in  books.  I  must  think  things  out  for  myself, 
and  try  to  get  clear  about  them. 

Helmer.  Are  you  not  clear  about  your  place  in  your 
own  home?  Have  you  not  an  infallible  guide  in  such 
things?     Have  you  not  religion? 

Nora.  Oh,  Thorvald,  I  don't  really  know  what  re- 
ligion is. 

Helmer.     What  do  you  mean  ? 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  169 

Nora.  I  know  nothing  but  what  Pastor  Hansen  told 
me  when  I  was  confirmed.  He  explained  that  religion 
was  this  and  that.  When  I  get  away  from  all  this  and 
stand  alone,  I  will  look  into  that  matter  too.  I  will  see 
whether  what  he  taught  me  is  right,  or,  at  any  rate, 
whether  it  is  right  for  me. 

Helmer.  Oh,  this  is  unheard  of!  And  from  so 
young  a  woman!  But  if  religion  cannot  keep  you  right, 
let  me  appeal  to  your  conscience — for  I  suppose  you  have 
some  moral  feeling?  Or,  answer  me:  perhaps  you  have 
none  ? 

Nora.  Ah,  Thorvald,  what  shall  I  answer?  [it's  not 
easy  to  say].  I  really  don't  know — I  am  all  at  sea  about 
these  things.  I  only  know  that  I  think  quite  differently 
from  you  about  moral  questions.  I  hear,  too,  that  the 
law  is  on  your  side;  but  I  can't  believe  it.  I  can't  under- 
stand that  the  law  is  right  in  what  concerns  me.  That 
a  woman  has  no  right  to  spare  her  dying  father,  or  to 
save  her  husband's  life! 

Helmer.  You  talk  like  a  child.  You  don't  under- 
stand the  society  in  which  you  live. 

Nora.  No,  I  do  not.  But  now  I  shall  try  to  learn. 
I  must  make  up  my  mind  which  is  right — society  or  I. 
(She  goes  into  the  room  on  the  right  andfetclies  lier 
hat  and  cloak.) 

Helmer.  Nora,  you  are  ill;  you  are  feverish;  I 
almost  think  you  are  out  of  your  senses. 

Nora.  I  have  never  felt  so  much  clearness  and  cer- 
tainty as  to-night. 

Helmer.  You  are  clear  and  certain  enough  to  forsake 
husband  and  children  ? 

Nora.     Yes. 

Helmer.     Then  there  is  only  one  explanation  possible 

Nora.     What  is  that  ? 


170  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Helmer.     You  no  longer  love  me. 

Nora.     Yes,  Thorvald,  that  is  so. 

Helmer.     Nora!     Oh,  oh! 

Nora.  I  will  not  hide  it  from  you — I  do  not  love  you 
any  longer.     That  is  why  I  am  going. 

Helmer  (mastering  himself  with  difficulty).  Are  you 
clear  and  certain  on  this  point  too  ? 

Nora.     Yes,  quite. 

Helmer.  And  can  you  also  make  clear  to  me  how  I 
have  forfeited  your  love  ? 

Nora.  (Ah,  Thorvald,  the  point  is:  you  have  not 
forfeited).  I  can.  You  forfeited  my  love  this  evening, 
when  I  discovered  that  you  had  never  loved  me  as  I 
loved  you.  You  forfeited  it  when  I  saw  you  were  not  the 
man  I  had  imagined — when  I  could  no  longer  look  up 
to  you  as  an  exalted  and  superior  being;  for  you  are  not 
one. 

Helmer.     And  how  did  I  disclose  all  this? 

Nora.  I  will  tell  you.  That  which  you  call  my 
crime,  my  forging  my  father's  name  to  save  your  life, 
this  secret  has  been  my  joy  and  pride,  until  my  eyes  were 
opened  to  the  consequences  that  might  result  from  it. 
I  have  gone  through  a  week  of  deadly  terror. 

Helmer.     I  can  well  understand  that. 

Nora.  But  you  do  not  understand  why.  Or  can 
you  tell  me? 

Helmer.  Well,  you  had  no  need  to  fear  punishment 
and  disgrace.  You  must  have  known  that  I  should  em- 
ploy every  means  of  saving  you ;  that  I  should  have  been 
compelled  to  submit  to  any  conditions 

Nora.  H'm.  What  then  do  you  think  it  was  that 
made  me  want  to  die  ? 

Helmer.     You  were  afraid  of  my  anger. 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  171 

Nora.  No,  Thorvald,  I  wanted  to  die  in  order  to 
hinder  what  I  so  firmly  believed  your  gratitude,  your 
love  and  your  manly  spirit  would  prompt  you  to  do.  It 
never  for  a  moment  occurred  to  me  that  you  would  think 
of  submitting  to  that  man's  conditions,  that  you  would 
agree  to  direct  your  actions  by  the  will  of  another.  I 
was  convinced  that  you  would  say  to  him,  "Make  it 
known  to  the  whole  world";   and  that  then 

Helmer.  Well  ?  I  should  give  you  up  to  punish- 
ment and  disgrace. 

Nora.  No;  then  I  firmly  believed  that  you  would 
come  forward,  take  everything  upon  yourself,  and  say, 
"I  am  the  guilty  one" 

Helmer.     Nora! 

Nora.  You  mean  I  would  never  have  accepted  such 
a  sacrifice?  No,  of  course  not.  But  what  would  my 
word  have  been  worth  in  opposition  to  yours  ?  I  so 
firmly  believed  that  you  would  sacrifice  yourself  for  me 
— "don't  listen  to  her,"  you  would  say — "she  is  not  re- 
sponsible; she  is  out  of  her  senses" — you  would  say  that 
it  was  love  of  you — you  would  move  heaven  and  earth. 
I  thought  you  would  get  Doctor  Rank  to  witness  that  I 
was  mad,  unhinged,  distracted.  I  so  firmly  believed 
that  you  would  ruin  yourself  to  save  me.  That  is  what 
I  dreaded,  and  therefore  I  wanted  to  die. 

Helmer.     Oh,  Nora,  Nora! 

Nora.  And  how  did  it  turn  out?  No  thanks,  no 
outburst  of  affection,  not  a  shred  of  a  thought  of  saving 
me.  Only  reproaches — sneers  at  my  father — petty  ter- 
rors— tyrannical  abuse  of  a  defenceless  victim. 

Helmer.     Yes,  yes 

Nora.  And  then,  the  very  moment  the  danger  was 
over,  it  seemed  to  you  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 
I  was  again  your  lark,  your  doll,  whom  you  would  take 


172  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

twice  as  much  care  of  in  future,  because  she  was  so  weak 
and  fragile.  Thorvald,  in  that  moment  you  stood  re- 
vealed to  me  as  [it  burst  upon  me  that  I  had  been  living 
here  with]  a  strange  man;  and  with  a  strange  man  I  can- 
not continue  to  live  [that  is  what  cannot  continue]. 

Helmer.  Yes,  yes,  yes,  an  abyss  has  opened  between 
us.     But,  Nora,  Nora,  can  it  never  be  filled  up  ? 

Nora.     As  I  now  am,  I  am  no  wife  for  you. 

Helmer.     I  have  strength  to  become  another  man. 

Nora.  Perhaps — when  your  doll  is  taken  away  from 
you. 

Helmer.  To  part — to  part  from  you!  No,  Nora, 
no;  I  can't  grasp  the  thought. 

Nora.     The  more  reason  for  the  thing  to  happen! 
{She  fetches  her  travelling-bag  from  the  room  on  the 
right.) 

Helmer.  Nora,  Nora,  [not  now!  Wait  till  to-mor- 
row. 

Nora.  I  can't  spend  the  night  in  a  strange  man's 
house. 

H.     ...  brother  and  sister. 

N.  Phrases.  You  know  very  well — that  wouldn't 
long  be  the  case.] 

Nora  (Putting  on  her  outdoor  things).  Good-bye, 
Thorvald.  No,  I  won't  go  to  the  children.  I  know 
they  are  in  better  hands  than  mine.  As  I  now  am,  I 
can  be  nothing  to  them. 

Helmer.     But  some  time,  Nora — some  time ? 

Nora.  How  can  I  tell  ?  I  have  no  idea  what  will 
become  of  me. 

Helmer.     But  you  are  my  wife,  now  and  always. 

Nora.  Listen  to  me,  Thorvald — when  a  wife  leaves 
her  husband's  house,  as  I  am  doing,  I  have  heard  that 
in  the  eyes  of  the  law  he  is  free  from  all  duties  towards 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  173 

her.  At  any  *rate,  I  release  you  from  all  duties.  Ifou 
must  not  feel  yourself  bound  by  any  tie,  any  more  than 
I  shall.  There  must  be  perfect  freedom  on  both  sides. 
There,  I  give  you  back  your  ring.     Give  me  mine. 

Helmer.     That  too  ? 

Nora.     That  too.  u 

Helmer.     Here  it  is. 

Nora.  Very  well.  Now  it  is  all  over.  I  lay  the  keys 
here.  The  servants  know  about  everything  in  the  house 
— better  than  I  do.  To-morrow,  when  I  have  started, 
Christina  will  come  to  pack  up  the  things  I  brought  with 
me  from  home.     I  will  have  them  sent  after  me. 

Helmer.  All  over!  All  over!  Nora,  will  you  never 
think  of  me  again  ? 

Nora.  When  a  woman  has  lived  with  a  man  for 
eight  years,  I  don't  think  he  will  ever  become  quite  a 
stranger  to  her.  I  shall  often  think  of  you,  and  the  chil- 
dren, and  this  house. 

Helmer.     Nora,  may  I  write  to  you  ? 

Nora.     No, — never!     You  must  not. 

Helmer.     But  I  must  send  you 

Nora.     Nothing,  nothing. 

Helmer.     I  must  help  you  if  you  need  it. 

Nora.  Nothing,  nothing,  I  say.  I  take  nothing  from 
strangers. 

Helmer.  I  see  it  well;  I  have  become  a  stranger  to 
you. 

Nora.  You  have,  as  I  to  you.  And  therefore,  good- 
bye! 

Helmer.  Nora — can  I  never  be  more  than  a  stranger 
to  you? 

Nora.  Oh,  Thorvald,  then  the  miracle  of  miracles 
would  have  to  happen 

Helmer.     What  is  this  miracle? 


174  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Nora.     Both  of  us  would  have  to  change'so  that — Oh, 
Thorvald,  I  no  longer  believe  in  miracles. 

Helmer.     But   I    believe    in    them.     Tell    me!     We 
must  so  change  that ? 

Nora.     That  communion  between  us  shall  be  a  mar- 
riage.    Good-bye. 

(She  rapidly  picks  up  her  travelling-bag,  nods  and 
goes  out.) 

Helmer    (sinks   into   a   chair   by   the   door).     Nora! 
Nora! — The  miracle  of  miracles ?! 


II 
FROM  THE   SECOND  ACT 

N.  People  are  sympathetic  towards  those  who  are 
ill. — What  are  the  children  doing? 

A.  Oh,  poor  mites,  they're  amusing  themselves  as 
well  as  they  can. 

N.  Ask  for  me.  If  I  can't  have  them  so  much  with 
me  in  future 

A.     Little  children  get  used  to  anything. 

N.  If  I  went  quite  away  from  them,  do  you  believe 
they  would  forget  me 


A.     Gracious  me  quite  away 

Nora.     Hasn't  your  daughter  become  a  stranger  to 


you- 


A.     How  does  Mrs.  Nora  know 

N.  That  you  have  had  a  child — I  have  known  that 
since  I  was  twelve  or  thirteen — otherwise  you  could  not 
have  been  my  nurse.  Oh,  it  must  be  terrible  to  be  torn 
away  from  one's  dear  ones. 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  175 

A.  We  poor  people  don't  look  at  it  in  that  way.  My 
little  Nora  was  like  a  child  of  my  own 

N.  You  must  never  leave  the  little  ones,  promise  me 
that. 

A.  Did  I  not  look  after  Nora,  when  she  was  a  little 
girl  and  had  no  mother  but  me. 

N.     Yes,  yes,  they  are  in  good  hands  with  you. 


No —    How  kind  of  you  to  come. 

Mrs.  L.     I  have  come  to  thank  your  husband. 

N.     Appointed. 

Mrs.  L.     Yes — Perhaps  he  is  not  at  home. 

N.  Is  so  busy.  But  now  you  must  help  me.  Look 
here.  Fancy  ball  at  Stenborg's  overhead  on  third  floor. 
I  am  to  appear  as  a  Neapolitan  girl  and  dance  the  taran- 
tella— learnt  it  on  the  spot — promised  Torvald — Can 
you  help 

Mrs.  L.  Will  try — But  I've  quite  forgotten  to  thank 
you  for  the  pleasant  evening  yesterday 

Nora.  Oh,  Torvald  has  the  art  of  making  everything 
so  pleasant. 

Mrs.  L.  You  too — But  tell  me,  is  Doctor  Rank  al- 
ways so  serious  as  he  was  last  evening 

N.  He  suffers  from  a  dreadful  illness — But  yesterday 
it  was  certainly  marked 

Mrs.  L.     He  comes  here  very  often. 

N.  Every  day — he  is  quite  one  of  the  family;  I  don't 
think  he  could  get  on  without  us. 


N.  I  assure  you.  But,  Doctor  R.  ?  I'm  certain  that 
if  I  asked  him 

Mrs.  L.  N.  N.  behind  your  husband's  back — why 
don't  you  speak  to  your  husband 


176  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

N.  Oh,  you  don't  understand  it  all,  don't  know 
Torvald. 

Mrs.  L.     Not  Dr.  R.  on  any  account. 

N.  Would  never  occur  to  me;  although  I  am  sure 
he  would  do  it. 

Mrs.  L.  But  you  must  get  clear  of  it.  This  secrecy 
is  likely  to  undermine  all  truthfulness  in  your  relations 
with  your  husband 

N.  And  you  can  say  that.  Yes,  I  must  get  clear  of 
it.  Tell  me,  when  everything  is  paid,  one  gets  back 
the  paper? 

Mrs.  L.     Yes,  of  course. 

N.     Oh)  to  have  money,  Christina 

Mrs.  L.     Would  not  your  husband ? 

N.  Oh,  there  are  many  that  he —  (Humming.)  But 
courage— leap  into  it,  not  creep 

Mrs.  L.     But  no  more  secrets  from  your  husband,  N. 

N.  Pooh!  a  husband  need  not  know  everything. 
Hush,  here  he  comes.  [Go  into  the  nursery,  dear.  Tor- 
vald doesn't  like  to  see  dressmaking.]  (Goes  into  the 
hall.)  Oh,  is  that  you,  Torvald  dear — how  cold  you  are. 
Haven't  you  been  frozen  at  the  Bank  ?  Well,  that's  all 
right. 


H.      — If  R.  comes,  he  will  find  me  in  the  inner  oiSce — 

(Goes  into  his  room.) 

N.  Doctor  R — Yes,  it's  his  time  for  coming — It  must 
be.  Now  he  will  soon  get  the  letter — There's  a  ring; 
that's  he.  No,  it's  not  he — Ah,  Doctor,  it's  you.  Bring 
in  the  lamp,  Ellen — Come  here,  Doctor;  I  think  my  hus- 
band has  something  to  do 


R.     One  can't  call  an  ugly  thing  by  pretty  names. 
Well,  one  has  to  go  some  day.     But  to  suffer  thus  for 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  177 

another's  sin.  Where's  the  justice  of  it?  And  yet  you 
can  trace  in  every  family  an  inexorable  retribution.  It  is 
my  father's  wild  oats  that  my  poor  spine  must  do  penance 
for. 

N.  But,  my  dear  Doctor  R — You  may  live  a  long 
while  yet. 

R.  H'm,  I'm  quite  clear  about  it.  This  is  the  last 
Christmas  I  shall  spend  in  this  house.  I  wonder  how 
things  will  look  in  a  year's  time 

N.     Ah,  if  one  could  know  that. 

R — Well,  the  absent  are  soon  forgotten 


R.  You  see,  you  see. 
<  N.  Only  to  put  my  costume  in  order.  Now  don't 
be  angry,  dear  Dr.  R.  Fie,  you  were  so  unfriendly  to 
her  last  evening.  Do  be  good;  you  are  our  first  and  best 
friend,  you  know  that — To-morrow  you  shall  see  how 
beautiful  I  shall  be  at  the  ball — R.,  now  I'll  show  you 
something.     Look  here. 

R.     What  is  it. 

N.     Look. 

R.     Silk  stockings. 

N.  Flesh-coloured — No,  no,  no,  you  must  only  look 
at  the  feet. — Oh,  well,  I  suppose  you  may  look  at  the 
rest  too. 

R.     Do  you  think  those  stockings  will  fit  you. 

N.     Why  not 

R.     Oh,  I  didn't  know 


N.  (hits  him  lightly  on  the  cheek  with  the  stockings.) 
For  shame. 

R.     Nora — Mrs.  Helmer — when  one  is  going  to  die. 

N.  You  mustn't  die  and  leave  us;  you  must  go  on 
being  Torvald's  and  my  best  and  dearest  friend 


178  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

R.  Oh,  I  have  never  had  an  opportunity  of  proving 
my  friendship  to  you.  I  have  only  accepted  what  you 
have  lavished  upon  me,  comfort,  kindness — I  had  almost 
said  happiness 

N.     And  if  I  were  to  ask  you  for — no 

R.     For  what  ? 

N.     For  a  great  proof  of  your  friendship  ? 

R.  Oh,  do  so,  N.;  you  don't  know  how  gladly  I  would 
leave  behind  something — a  remembrance;  something  that 
would  keep  me  from  oblivion.     But  what  is  it  ? 

N.  Oh,  no,  I  cannot — Now  that  I  am  to  say  it,  it  seems 
to  me  an  impossibility — I  don't  know  how  you  will  judge 
of  me 

R.  Then  I  will  tell  you  something.  You  shall  know 
now  what  you  have  never  guessed ;  have  never  been  able 
to  guess — A  dying  man,  as  I  am,  may  speak  out;  I  have 
kept  silence  hitherto. 

N.     Dr.  R.,  keep  silence  still. 

R.  No,  you  shall  hear  it;  I  have  loved  you,  N.,  loved 
you  ever  since  I  have  known  you.  Every  moment  I  have 
passed  with  you  has  been  like  a  great  indescribable  happi- 
ness, the  only  happiness  I  have  known. 

N.     Not  so  loud — some  one  might  hear  you. 

R.  Helmer  himself  may  hear  every  single  word  I  have 
addressed  to  you;  when  I  am  gone  he  shall  know  all; 
but  you  shall  hear  it  now,  so  that  you  may  turn  to  me  with 
full  confidence.  I  will  only  tell  you  this.  No  one  has 
loved  you  more  deeply  than  I. 

Nora  (going  to  the  door).     Ellen,  bring  the  lamp. 

R.     Nora 

Nora.   Oh,  my  dear  Dr.  R— that  was  too  bad  of  you ■ 

R.     What? 

N.  Why  should  you  have  told  me  that.  It  was  all  so 
nice;   it  was  so  unnecessary 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE  179 


R.     What  do  you  mean  ?     Did  you  know— 

(The  Maid  enters  with  the  lamp.) 
Nora.     Thanks.     Put  it  on  the  table  there- 


(Exit  Maid.) 

R.     Nora,  I  ask  you,  did  you  know 

N.     Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  knew;   one  has  an  idea, 
or — no,  I  don't  know  at  all 

R.     Well,  you  know  now  that  you  can  count  upon  me — 
Now  go  on 

N.     Go  on — now? 

R — Oh,  let  me  do  for  you  whatever  a  man  can. 

N — You  can  do  nothing  for  me  now 

R.     Not  now?     Now  that  you  know 

N — Above  all,  not  now.     Oh,  Heaven,  why  can't  a 
man  understand 

R.     Yes,  N.,  I  ought  to  have  understood. 

N.     Too  late. 

R.     Ought  I  to  go — for  ever. 

N.     No,  you  mustn't.   You  must  come  and  go  as  you've 
always  done.     Torvald  can't  do  without  you. 

R.     But  you 

N.     Oh,  I,  I — but  now  you  must  go  in  to  Torvald  for 
a  while 

R.     Are  you  angry  ? 

N.     No;  but  now  you  must  go  to  him.     He's  waiting 
for  you  in  the  inner  office. 

R.     When  you  remember  what  I  have  said  to  you,  you 
must  also  bear  in  mind  that  I  am  a  dying  man. 

(He  goes  into  Helmer's  room.) 

N.     It  was  best  thus.     No  obligation  to  anyone.     He 

won't  come.     Nothing  will  happen. 

(She  is  going  into  the  room  on  tJie  left;   at  the  same 
moment  The  Maid  opens  the  door  into  the  hall.) 

Maid  (softly).     Please,  ma'am. 


180  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

N.     What  is  it. 

M.     The  gentleman  who  came  to  see  Mr.  Helmer  yes- 
terday  


N.     What  gentleman;   there  were  so  many 

M.     He  gave  his  card 

N.     Ah — where  is  he 

M.     He  came  up  the  back  stair,  he  wanted  to  speak  to 
you  alone,  ma'am. 

N.     Oh,  Heaven,  now;   I — I  can't 

M.     He  said  he  wouldn't  go  until  he  had  spoken  to 
you. 

N.     Then  let  him  come  in;  Ellen,  don't  say  anything; 
it's  a  surprise  for  my  husband 

M.     Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  understand 

N.     Oh,  this  dreadful  thing 

(She  slips  the  bolt  of  H.'s  door.)     (The  Maid  opens 
the  door  for  K.  and  shuts  it  after  him.) 


Kr.  A  money  transaction  of  this  kind  with  a  minor 
is  not  even  strictly  speaking  binding 

N.  Is  it  not?  Well,  well,  it's  all  the  same,  I  shall 
pay  nevertheless. 

Kr.  Good,  good;  but  what  I  was  going  to  say  was, 
if  you  have  any  desperate  scheme  in  your  head 

N.     What  if  I  have? 

Kr.  Put  all  that  out  of  your  head.  Were  you  per- 
haps thinking  of  going  away  secretly 


N.     How  do  you  know  that  ?     Who  has  told  you- 

Kr.     Or  perhaps  of  something  worse 

N.     Oh,  don't  speak  of  it — that  terrible 


Kr.     Yes,  it  must  be  terrible,  especially  for  a  lady  so 

delicately  brought  up.     The  icy  water,  black,  deep ■ 

N.     Plow  do  you  know  all  this 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE  181 

Kr.  And  next  spring  when  the  ice  melts  to  come  up 
again — ugly,  unrecognisable — I  hadn't  the  courage,  and 
it  was  in  summer  time,  too — and  now  it  is  midwinter « 

N.     Never — I  should  never  have  courage  to  do  it. 

K.  Besides,  it  would  be  very  foolish.  You  have  a 
happy  home,  a  husband  and  children  of  whom  you  are 
fond.  A  number  of  good  friends,  respect  from  everyone 
— and  your  life  before  you. 

N.     Oh,  yes,  yes — ,  life  might  be  so  lovely 

Kr.  Therefore  you  must  not  throw  it  away  thought- 
lessly; I  am  afraid  I  frightened  you  too  much  yesterday, 
and  so  I  want  to  talk  to  you  now — to  prepare  you 

N.     For  what  ? 

Kr.  I  have  been  thinking  more  carefully  over  these 
matters.  My  position  is  not  such  that  I  can  Set  go  the 
hold  I  have  now  obtained  over  Helmer — I  shall  not  abuse 
it,  if  he  is  reasonable. 

N.     What  will  you  do. 

K.  This  course  is  not  my  choice;  it  is  your  hus- 
band's. I  would  have  preferred  to  content  myself  with 
regaining  my  position,  step  by  step.  That  has  not 
succeeded;  very  well;  with  this  piece  of  paper  I  have 
my  good  friend  T.  H.  in  my  pocket; 

N.     You  never  will; 

K.  I  shall;  within  three  months  I  shall  be  in  the 
Bank's  service  again.  Before  a  year  is  out  I  shall  be 
the  manager's  right  hand.  He  won't  dare  to  show  fight. 
It  won't  be  T.  H.,  but  Nils  K.,  that  manages  the  Joint 
Stock  Bank. 

N.  Do  you  know  that  this  is  his  life's  work;  he  will 
never  give  it  up;  he  will  have  his  liberty  and  no  one  over 
him. 

K.  Doesn't  concern  me — for  your  sake  he  will  have 
to  yield 


182  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Nora.  Very  well ;  now  I  have  courage  enough  for  any- 
thing. 

K.  Bah — you  haven't — I  have  seen  that  much — ■ 
Drown  yourself  in  the  cold  water?] 

N.     I  shall  do  it 

K.  What  would  be  the  use  of  it;  I  have  him  in  my 
pocket  all  the  same — I  can  hold  your  reputation  over 
him. — Look,  here  is  the  letter. 

N.     Give  it  to  me. 

K.     To  deliver 

N.     Yes,  yes 

K.     Thanks;   but  perhaps  it  will  be  safer  if  I 


N.  You  can't  see  him;  you  can't  speak  to  him  now — ■ 
It  is  a  relief  to  me  to  know  that  you  won't  do  anything 
foolish 

N.  He's  going;  he's  changed  his  mind — ah — in  the 
letter-box 


FROM  THE  THIRD  ACT 

H.  What  is  it  you  won't  have?  There  is  nothing 
you  may  refuse,  if  I  want  it.  Am  I  not  your  husband  ? 
What  is  it  you  won't  have  ? 

N.     Nothing.     Your  wishes  are  mine. 

H.  Oh,  what  a  brute — what  a  madman  I  am.  But 
the  thought  of  your  being  mine  sometimes  turns  my 
head  (kisses  her  hands  again  and  again) .  Can  you  for- 
give me,  my  dearest  Nora — can  you — I  swear  to  you — 

(A  knock  at  the  outer  door.) 

N.  (with  a  scream) .     Who  is  that  coming  ? 


GHOSTS 


The  play  is  to  be  like  a  picture  of  life.  Belief  under- 
mined. But  it  does  not  do  to  say  so.  "  The  Orphanage  " 
— for  the  sake  of  others.  They  are  to  be  happy — but 
this  too  is  only  an  appearance — Everything  is  ghosts. 

A  leading  point:  She  has  been  a  believer  and  roman- 
tic— this  is  not  entirely  obliterated  by  the  standpoint 
reached  later — "  Everything  is  ghosts." 

Marriage  for  external  reasons,  even  when  these  are 
religious  or  moral,  brings  a  Nemesis  upon  the  offspring. 

She,  the  illegitimate  child,  can  be  saved  by  being  mar- 
ried to — the  son — but  then ? 


He  was  dissipated  and  his  health  was  shattered  in  his 
youth;  then  she  appeared,  the  religious  enthusiast;  she 
saved  him;  she  was  rich.  He  was  going  to  marry  a  girl 
who  was  considered  unworthy.  He  had  a  son  by  his 
wife,  then  he  went  back  to  the  girl;   a  daughter. 


These  women  of  the  present  day,  ill-used  as  daughters, 
as  sisters,  as  wives,  not  educated  according  to  their  gifts, 
prevented  from  following  their  inclination,  deprived  of 
their  inheritance,  embittered  in  temper — it  is  these  who 
furnish  the  mothers  of  the  new  generation.  What  is 
the  result? 


The  key-note  is  to  be:  The  prolific  growth  of  our  in- 
tellectual life,  in  literature,  art,  etc. — and  in  contrast  to 
this:   the  whole  of  mankind  gone  astray. 

185 


186  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

The  complete  human  being  is  no  longer  a  product  of 
nature,  he  is  an  artificial  product  like  corn,  and  fruit- 
trees,  and  the  Creole  race  and  thoroughbred  horses  and 
dogs,  the  vine,  etc. 

The  fault  lies  in  that  all  mankind  has  failed.  If  a  man 
claims  to  live  and  develop  in  a  human  way,  it  is  megalo- 
mania. All  mankind,  and  especially  the  Christian  part 
of  it,  suffers  from  megalomania. 


Among  us,  monuments  are  erected  to  the  dead,  since 
we  have  a  duty  towards  them;  we  allow  lepers  to  marry; 
but  their  offspring ?     The  unborn ? 


FROM  THE  FIRST  ACT 

Pastor  M.  But  one  has  a  duty  towards  the  society 
in  which  one  lives.  If  one  has  a  good  and  beneficial 
vocation  to  work  at — and  such  we  ought  all  to  have,  Mrs. 
Alving — then  one  owes  it  to  that  vocation  and  to  one's 
self  to  stand  before  the  eyes  of  society  in  as  irreproach- 
able a  light  as  possible;  for  if  one  be  not  irreproachable, 
one  can  make  no  progress  with  one's  aims. 

Mrs.  A.     Yes,  you  are  perfectly  right  there. 


Pastor  M.  To  say  nothing  of  the  difficulty — I  may 
even  say  the  painfulness — of  the  position.  The  serious 
Christians  of  the  town  take  a  lively  interest  in  this  Or- 
phanage. It  is,  of  course,  founded  partly  for  the  benefit 
of  the  town,  as  well;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  it  will,  to  a 
considerable  extent,  result  in  lightening  our  Poor  Rates. 
But  now,  of  course,  every  one  in  the  town  knows  that  I 


GHOSTS  187 

have  been  your  adviser,  and  have  had  the  business  ar- 
rangements in  my  hands.  My  parishioners  might  there- 
fore so  easily  be  led  to  think  that  I,  their  clergyman 

Mrs.  A.  Yes,  it  would  undoubtedly  be  unpleasant 
for  you. 

Pastor  M.  To  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  I  have 
no  idea  of  the  attitude  my  superiors  in  the  church  would 
adopt  towards  the  question. 

Mrs.  A.  Very  well,  my  dear  Pastor  Manders;  that 
consideration  is  quite  decisive. 

Pastor  M.     Then  we  do  not  insure  ? 


Pastor  M.  That  is  a  very  disputable  point,  Mrs. 
Alving.  A  child's  proper  place  is,  and  must  be,  the 
home. 

Os.  There  I  think  you're  quite  right,  Pastor  Man- 
ders. 

Pastor  M.  Ah,  you  can  hardly  have  any  idea  of 
what  a  home  should  be 

O.  Oh,  but  anyhow  I  have  seen  other  people's 
homes. 

Pastor  M.  I  thought,  however,  that  over  there,  es- 
pecially in  artistic  circles,  the  life  was  a  somewhat  home- 
less one 

O.  Well,  most  of  the  young  men  are  forced  to  live 
so;  they  have  no  money,  and  besides  they  don't  want  to 
give  up  their  precious  freedom — they  live  frugally,  I 
can  tell  you,  a  slice  of  ham  and  a  bottle  of  wine. 

Pastor  M.     But  in  what  company  ? 

O.  In  very  pleasant  company,  Pastor  Manders. 
Sometimes  a  few  models  join  them  and  then,  as  likely 
as  not,  there's  dancing. 


188  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Pastor  M.     Models — ?     What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

O.  We  painters  and  sculptors  require  models,  I  sup- 
pose. Otherwise  how  could  we  reproduce  the  tension  of 
the  muscles  and  the  reflected  lights  on  the  skin — and  all 
that  sort  of  thing. 

Pastor  M.  But  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  there  are 
women  who 

O.  Who  sit  to  us  artists;  yes,  I  can  assure  you  there 
are. 

Pastor  M.  And  such  immorality  is  tolerated  by  the 
authorities  ? 

O.  The  authorities  tolerate  worse  kinds  of  immorality 
than  that,  Pastor,  as  you  are  doubtless  not  unaware 

Pastor  M.  Alas,  alas,  that  is  only  too  true;  but  as  to 
these  models,  it  is  even  worse,  for  it  takes  place  openly 
and  is  spoken  about 

O.  Yes,  it  would  never  occur  to  us  to  do  otherwise. 
Oh,  I  can  assure  you,  there  are  many  fine  figures  among 
the  models  one  doesn't  often  see  here. 

Pastor  M.  Is  it  in  such  society  you  have  been  living 
abroad  ? 

O.  Sometimes  too  I  visit  my  friends  at  their  homes; 
one  has  to  see  what  their  domestic  circle  is  like,  play  a 
little  with  the  children. 

Pastor  M.  But  you  said  most  of  the  artists  were  not 
married. 

O.     Oh,  that  was  a  mistake — I  meant  wedded. 

Pastor  M.     But,  good  heavens 

O.  But,  my  dear  Pastor  Manders,  what  are  they  to 
do?  A  poor  painter,  a  poor  girl;  they  can't  afford  to 
marry,  it  costs  a  great  deal.     What  are  they  to  do  ? 

Pastor  M.  I  will  tell  you,  Mr.  Alving;  they  should 
remain  apart. 

O.     That  doctrine  will  scarcely  go  down  with  warm- 


GHOSTS  189 

blooded  young  people,  full  of  the  joy  of  life.     Oh,  the 
glorious  free  life  out  there. 

Pastor  M.  And,  to  make  matters  worse,  such  freedom 
is  to  be  signalised  as  praiseworthy 

O.  Let  me  tell  you,  sir,  you  may  visit  many  of  these 
irregular  homes  and  you  will  never  hear  an  offensive 
word  there.  And  let  me  tell  you  another  thing:  I  have 
never  come  across  immorality  among  our  artists  over 
there — but  do  you  know  where  I  have  found  it ? 

Pastor  M.     No,  I'm  happy  to  say 

O.  Well,  then,  I'm  afraid  I  must  inform  you.  I  have 
met  with  it  in  many  a  pattern  husband  and  father  who 
has  come  to  Paris  to  have  a  look  round  on  his  own 
account,  one  of  these  gentlemen  with  a  heavy  gold  chain 
outside  his  waistcoat;  do  you  know  what  is  the  first 
thing  these  gentlemen  do  ?  Why,  they  hunt  up  some  poor 
artist  or  other,  get  on  familiar  terms  with  him,  ask  him 
to  supper  at  a  smart  restaurant,  make  the  champagne 
flow  freely — and  then  take  his  arm  and  propose  that  they 
shall  make  a  night  of  it — and  then  we  artists  hear  of 
places  we  never  knew  of  before,  and  see  things  we  never 
dreamed  of — But  these  are  the  respectable  men,  Pastor 
Manders,  and  on  their  return  you  can  hear  their  praises 
of  the  pure  morals  of  home  in  contrast  to  the  corruption 
abroad — oh  yes — these  men  know  what's  what — they 
have  a  right  to  be  heard. 

Mrs.  A.  But,  my  dear  Oswald,  you  mustn't  get 
excited. 

O.  No,  you're  right;  it's  bad  for  me — I  shall  go  for 
a  little  turn  before  dinner.  Excuse  me,  Pastor,  I  know 
you  can't  take  my  point  of  view;  but  I  had  to  speak  out 
for  once. 

(He  goes  out  by  the  second  door  to  tfie  right.) 

Pastor  M.     Then  this  is  what  he  has  come  to! 


190  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 


FROM  THE  THIRD   ACT 

Reg.  You  might  have  brought  me  up  to  be  a  lady, 
ma'am,  it  would  have  suited  me  better.  And  then  I 
shouldn't  have  had  to  be  so  careful  about  money. 


THE  WILD  DUCK 

A  PLAY   IN   FIVE   ACTS 

By  Henrik  Ibsen 

1884 


FIRST  ACT 

At  Walle's  house.     A  richly  and  comfortably  furnished 
smoking-roajn;    upholstered    sofas    and    armchairs; 
smoking -tables  with  pipes  and  cigar-boxes;    lighted 
lamps  and  branching  candlesticks.     At  the  back,  a 
large  open  door  with  curtains  drawn  back.     Within 
is  seen  the  billiard-room,  also  lighted  up.     In  front,  on 
the  right  (in  the  smoking-room),  a  small  baize  door 
leads  into  the  office.     On  the  left,  in  front,  the  fireplace 
with  a  fire,  and  beyond  the  fireplace  a  double  door 
leading  into  the  dining-room.     From  within  is  heard 
loud-voiced    conversation    and    laughter    of    many 
guests.     A    glass   is   tapped   with   a   knife;    silence 
follows.     A  toast  is  proposed;  then  again  a  loud  buzz 
of  conversation. 
Walle's  servant,  in  livery,  and  two  or  three  hired  waiters 
in  black  are  putting  the  smoking-room  and  billiard- 
room  in  order. 
Walle's  Servant  (bends  down  to  put  more  coal  on 
the  fire,  while  listening  and  saying  to  one  of  the  hired 
waiters).     Hark  to  them,  Jensen!    now  the  old  man's 
on  his  legs  holding  a  long  palaver  about  Mrs.  Sorby. 

Hired  Waiter  (lighting  a  candlestick).     Are  they — 
very  good  friends,  eh? 

Walle's  Servant.     Lord  knows. 
Hired  Waiter.     I've  heard  tell  as  he's  been  a  lively 
customer  in  his  day. 

193 


194  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Walle's  Servant.     May  be. 

(Puts  down  the  fire-shovel.) 
Another  Hired  Waiter  (in  the  doorway  of  the  billiard- 

room).     Pettersen,  here's  an  old  chap  wanting 

Walle's  Servant.  Now?  They're  just  going  to 
leave  the  table. 

(Old  Ekdahl  appears  from  the  right,  in  the  billiard- 
room.  He  is  white-haired,  quiet  in  manner  and 
stoops  somewhat;  he  is  dressed  in  an  old-fashioned 
overcoat  with  a  high  collar;  and  carries  in  his 
hand  a  winter  cap  and  a  faded  cotton  umbrella. 
Under  his  arm  a  bundle  of  papers  in  a  blue  wrap- 
per.) 
Walle's  Servant.  Good  Lord — what  do  you  want 
here  at  this  time  of  night?    .. 

Ekdahl.     I  must  get  into  the  office 

Walle's  Servant.     The  office  was  closed   an  hour 

ago,  and 

Ekdahl.  Yes,  they  told  me  so;  but  I'm  sure  Mr. 
Graberg's  in  there  still,  and   if  you — if  you  *  (Points 

*  Ekdahl  here  hesitates  between  the  formal  De  and 
the  familiar  du  (thou) ;  Pettersen  replies  to  him  with  du. 

towards  the  baize  door)  would  let  me  go  this  way 

Walle's  Servant.  Well,  you  may  go.  (Moving  a 
table.)  Oh,  look  here,  Ekdahl,  lend  me  a  hand  with  this 
table. 

Ekdahl  (involuntarily  drawing  himself  up).  I — ! 
(Meekly.)     Oh,  I  see,  the  table 

Walle's  Servant.  Thanks.  (Opens  the  baize  door.) 
There,  in  with  you,  Ekdahl;  but  mind  you  go  out  again 
the  other  way,  for  we've  got  company. 

Ekdahl.    Yes,  I  know 

(He  goes  into  the  office.) 


THE   WILD   DUCK  195 

One  of  the  Hired  Waiters.  Is  he  one  of  the  office 
people  ? 

Walle's  Servant.  No,  he's  only  an  outside  hand 
that  does  odd  jobs  of  copying.  But  he's  been  a  tip- 
topper  in  his  day,  he  has. 

Hired  Waiter.     Yes,  he  looked  like  it. 
Walle's    Servant.     Ah,    he's    been    a   lawyer    and 
deuce  knows  what.     Lord,  I  know  old  Ekdahl  well,  I 
do.     Many  a  nip  of  bitters  and  bottle  of  ale  we  two 
have  drunk  at  Madam  Eriksen's. 

Hired  Waiter.  He  don't  look  as  if  he'd  much  to  stand 
treat  with. 

Walle's  Servant.     Why,  bless  you,  Jensen,  it's  me 
that  stands  treat.     I  always  think  there's  no  harm  in 
being  a  bit  civil  to  folks  that  have  had  a  hard  time. 
Hired  Waiter.     Did  he  go  bankrupt  then  ? 
Walle's  Servant.     Worse  than  that.     He  went  to 
prison. 

Hired  Waiter.     To  prison! 

Walle's  Servant.  Or  perhaps  it  was  the  Peniten- 
tiary.    (Listens.)     Sh!     They're  leaving  the  table. 

(TIw  dining-room  door  is  thrown  open  from  within, 
by  a  couple  of  waiters.  TIw  whole  company  grad- 
ually comes  out.  Walle  leads  the  way,  with  an 
elderly  lady  [Mrs.  Sorby]  on  his  arm;  lie  takes 
her  out  through  the  billiard-room  and  tJience  into  an 
adjoining  room  on  the  right.  Gentlemen  of  various 
ages  enter  in  groups  and  scatter  tJiemselves  in  the 
smoking-room  and  billiard-room.  Chamberlains 
Flor,  Kaspersen  andr Smther  enter,  conversing, 
with  Gregers  Walle.  Last  comes  Halfdan 
Ekdahl.) 
Flor.  Whew!  What  a  dinner! — It  was  no  joke  to  do 
it  justice ! 


196  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Kaspersen.  Oh,  with  a  little  good-will  one  can  get 
through  a  lot  in  three  hours.     What  do  you  say,  Ssether  ? 

SjETHEr.  It's  the  appetite  that  provides  the  motive 
power,  he-he! 

Flor.     Ah,  if  one  had  your  stomach,  Kaspersen. 

Kaspersen  {stroking  Flor's  waistcoat).  I  should 
think  your  own  would  hold  a  good  deal. 

Flor.  Ah,  yes,  if  it  could  only  digest  what  it  can 
hold 

Gregers  Walle.  There's  a  remedy  for  everything, 
Mr.  Flor.  Otherwise  why  do  you  suppose  an  all-seeing 
Providence  created  mineral  waters? 

Kaspersen.  Fie,  fie,  now  you're  getting  Parisian 
again. 

Gregers.  It  sticks  to  one,  unfortunately.  But,  you 
see,  I've  just  come  from  there. 

Walle  {re-entering  [with  Mrs.  Sorby]).  What  are 
you  studying  so  intently,  Ekdahl  ? 

Halfdan.     Only  an  album,  Mr.  Walle. 

Walle.  Ah,  photographs!  They  are  quite  in  your 
line,  of  course. 

Kaspersen.  Have  you  brought  any  with  you  ?  Of 
your  own  manufacture  ?     What  ? 

Halfdan.     No,  I  haven't. 

Walle.  But  you  ought  to  have.  Then  you  might 
have  contributed  to  the  entertainment,  you  know. 

Mrs.  Sorby.  In  this  house  every  one  is  expected  to 
do  something  in  return  for  his  dinner,  Mr.  Ekdahl. 

Flor.  Where  one  dines  so  well,  that  duty  becomes  a 
pleasure. 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Chamberlain  Flor  exerts  himself  on  be- 
half of  the  ladies  till  the  perspiration  runs  off  him. 

Flor.  On  behalf  of  the  lady,  Mrs.  Sorby ;  the  lady  of 
the  house 


THE   WILD   DUCK  197 

Mrs.  SSrby.  Ah,  to-day  you  have  an  easy  task.  And 
Chamberlain  Kaspersen — what  does  he  do,  I  wonder ? 

Flor.     He  produces  witticisms 

Mrs.  Sorby.     Did  you  say,  re-produces ? 

Kaspersen  (laughing).     Now  you're  getting  too  bad! 

Flor.     I  only  said  produces,  but 

Kaspersen.  Oh,  well,  one  can  only  use  the  gifts  one 
has. 

Mrs.  Sorby.  That's  true;  and  therefore  Chamber- 
lain Ssether  is  always  so  ready  to  turr  over  music. 

SiETHER.     He-he! 

Gregers  {softly).     You  must  join  in,  Hialmar. 

Hialmar  Ekdahl  {shrugging  his  shoulders).  What 
am  I  to  talk  about? 

Walberg.  Throw  away  your  cigarette  end,  and  take 
a  proper  cigar. 

Kaspersen.     Yes,  but  is  Mrs.  Sorby  smoke-dried  ? 

Mrs.  Sorby  (lighting  a  cigarette) .  I  take  care  of  that 
myself. 

Sjtther.     Oh,  I  say! 

Flor.     Remarkably  delicate  Tokay. 

Valberg.  Yes,  you  may  well  say  that.  But  it  cost 
a  pretty  penny,  too;  for  it's  one  of  the  very  finest  sea- 
sons, you  must  know. 

Hialmar.  Is  there  any  difference  between  the  sea- 
sons ? 

Valberg.  Come!  That's  good!  It  really  doesn't 
pay  to  set  good  wine  before  you. 

Kaspersen.  Tokay  is  like  photographs,  Mr.  Ekdahl; 
they  both  need  sunshine.     Am  I  not  right? 

Hialmar.     Yes,  light  is  important,  no  doubt. 

Mrs.  Sorby.  And  it's  exactly  the  same  with  Cham- 
berlains;  they,  too,  depend  very  much  on  sunshiner 


198  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Kaspersen.  Oh,  fie!  That's  a  very  threadbare  sar- 
casm! 

Flor.     Mrs.  Sorby  is  reproducing 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Possibly;  but  it's  true  that  the  seasons 
differ  greatly. 

Kaspersen.  But  you  reckon  me  among  the  fine  vin- 
tages, don't  you,  Mrs.  Sorby  ? 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Oh,  I'm  sure  you  all  belong  to  the 
same  vintage,  all  three. 

Valberg.  Ha,  ha,  ha! — that's  one  for  you!  Fill  your 
glasses,  gentlemen.  In  such  villainously  cold  weather. 
A  good  glass,  a  warm,  comfortable  home — at  least  I 
think  it  is  so.  Within  one's  own  four  walls  is  the  place 
to  look  for  true  comfort. 

(The  guests  touch  their  glasses  and  drink.) 
Graberg  (at  the  baize  door) .  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I  can't 
get  out. 

Walle.     Have  you  been  locked  in  again  ? 
Graberg.     Yes,   and   Flaksrud   has   carried   off  the 

keys 

Walle.     Well,  you  can  pass  out  this  way. 

Graberg.     But  here's  some  one  else 

Walle.  All  right;  come  through,  both  of  you.  Don't 
be  afraid. 

(Graberg   and    Old    Ekdahl   come   through   the 
baize  door.) 
Werle  (involuntarily).     Ugh! 

(The  laughter  and  talk  among  the  guests  cease  sud- 
denly.    Hialmar  starts  at  the  sight  of  his  father, 
and  turns  aside.     Graberg  and  Ekdahl  go  out 
through  tlw  billiard-room  [and  out  to  the  right].) 
Werle  (mutters).     That  damned  fool  Graberg! 
Gregers.     Why  surely  that  wasn't 


THE   WILD   DUCK  199 

Sjether.     What's  the  matter?     Who  was  it? 

Gregers.     Oh,  nobody. 

Sjgther  (to  Hialmar).     Did  you  know  that  man? 

Hialmar.     I  don't  know — I  didn't  notice 

Sjether.  And  getting  in  like  that  through  closed 
doors.     I  must  find  out  about  this. 

(Goes  away  to  the  others.) 

Mrs.  Sorby  (whispers  to  the  Servant).  Give  him 
something  to  take  with  him; — something  good,  mind. 

Pettersen.     I'll  see  to  it.     (Goes  out.) 

Gregers  (softly).     So  that  was  really  he! 

Hialmar.     Yes,  it  was. 

Gregers.     And  you  denied  him! 

Hialmar.     But  how  could  I 

Gregers.  I'm  afraid  you've  become  a  coward, 
Hialmar. 

Hialmar.     Oh,  if  you  were  in  my  place 

(The  conversation  amongst  the  Guests,  which  has 
been  carried  on  in  low  tones,  now  swells  into  forced 
joviality.) 

Kaspersen  (approaching  Hialmar  and  Gregers  in 
a  friendly  manner).  Aha!  here  you  are  reviving  old 
memories.  Won't  you  have  a  light  to  your  cigar,  Mr. 
Ekdahl  ?     (Handing  him  a  candle.)     Allow  me. 

Hialmar.     No,  thank  you,  I  won't  smoke  now. 

Flor.  Haven't  you  some  verses  to  read  to  us,  Mr. 
Ekdahl  ?     You  used  to  write  such  charming  verses, 

Hialmar.     No,  I  haven't  any. 

Flor.  Are  you  all  well  at  home?  Your  children — 
You  have  children,  I  think ? 

Hialmar.     I  have  a  daughter. 

Flor.     And  what  does  she  do? 

Hialmar.     Hedvig  draws. 


200  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Flor.  No,  really  ?  That's  the  artistic  nature  she 
has  inherited. 

S  aether  (joining  them).  No,  it  wasn't  through 
closed  doors.     He  came  on  business. 

Kaspersen  (good-humour edly  turning  him  round). 
Oh,  you're  talking  nonsense,  Chamberlain.  (Draws 
him  away.) 

Flor.     Heaven    knows   what   he's   jabbering   about. 

(Goes  away.) 

Hialmar  (whispers).  I'm  going  now,  Gregers.  Say 
good-bye  to  your  father  for  me. 

Gregers.     Yes,  yes.     Are  you  going  straight  home? 

Hialmar.     Yes.     Why  ? 

Gregers.     Oh,  because  I  may  look  you  up  later. 

Hialmar.  No,  you  mustn't  do  that.  Not  at  home. 
We  can  always  arrange  to  meet  "somewhere  in  the  town. 

Mrs.  Sorby.     Are  you  going,  Ekdahl  ? 

Hialmar.     Yes. 

Mrs.  Sorby.     Remember  me  to  Gina. 

Hialmar.     Thanks. 

(He  tries  to  get  out,  as  far  as  possible  unnoticed,  to 
the  right.) 

Mrs.  Sorby  (softly,  to  Pettersen)  .  Well,  did  you 
give  the  old  man  something? 

Pettersen.  Yes;  I  sent  him  off  with  a  bottle  of 
cognac. 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Oh,  you  might  have  thought  of  some- 
thing better  than  that. 

Pettersen.  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Sorby;  cognac  is  what  he 
likes  best  in  the  world. 

Flor  (in  the  doorway  of  the  billiard-room,  with  a  sheet 
of  music  in  his  hand.)  Shall  we  play  something  to  you, 
Mrs.  Sorby  ? 

Mrs.  Sorby.     Yes,  suppose  you  do. 


THE   WILD   DUCK  201 

The  Guests.     Bravo!   Bravo! 

( They  all  go  out  to  the  right  through  the  billiard-room^ 
During  what  follows,  the  pianoforte  is  faintly 
heard.) 

Gregers.     Father,  won't  you  stay  a  moment  ? 

Werle.     What  is  it? 

Gregers.     I  must  have  a  word  with  you. 

Werle.     Can  it  not  wait  till  the  others  are  gone  ? 

Gregers.  No,  it  cannot;  for  perhaps  I  shall  go 
before  the  others. 

Werle.  Go  ?  Will  you  go  ?  What  do  you  mean  by 
that  ? 

Gregers.  How  has  that  family  been  allowed  to  go 
so  miserably  to  the  wall? 

Werle.     Do  you  mean  the  Ekdahls  ? 

Gregers.  Yes,  I  mean  the  Ekdahls.  Old  Ekdahl  was 
once  so  closely  associated  with  you.  And  once  in  his 
life,  at  any  rate,  he  was  very  useful  to  you. 

Werle.  Oho!  you're  thinking  of  the  old  story  in  the 
criminal  court?  Those  affairs  were  settled  long  ago. 
You  may  be  sure  he  Was  very  well  paid. 

Gregers.  That  may  be.  But  afterwards,  father;  all 
the  other  things 

Werle.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  "other 
things."  There  are  no  other  things!  He  never  once 
applied  to  me  while  there  was  yet  time.  He  did  not  know 
himself  what  a  mess  he  was  in,  until  everything  came 
to  light,  and  then  of  course  it  was  too  late. 

Gregers.  It's  not  that  I'm  talking  about,  either. 
But  afterwards,  since  that 

Werle.  Ah,  since  that.  When  he  came  out  of  prison 
he  was  a  broken-down  being. — I  can  assure  you,  Gregers, 
I  have  done  everything  in  my  power  to  help  him.     I  have 


202  FROM   IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

given  him  copying  to  do  for  the  office,  and  I  have  paid 
him  far,  far  more  than  his  work  is  worth.  Do  you  laugh 
at  that  ?  Do  you  think  I  am  not  telling  you  the  truth  ? 
Well,  I  certainly  can't  refer  you  to  my  books,  for  I  never 
enter  payments  of  that  sort 

Gregers  (smiles).  No,  there  are  certain  payments 
it  is  not  worth  while  to  keep  an  account  of. 

Werle   (taken  aback) .    What  do  you  mean  by  that  f 

Gregers.  Have  you  entered  what  it  cost  you  to 
have  Hialmar  Ekdahl  taught  photography? 

Werle.     I!     How  "entered"  it? 

Gregers  Werle.  I  have  learnt  that  it  was  you  who 
paid  for  his  training.  And  I  have  learnt,  too,  that  it  was 
you  who  enabled  him  to  set  up  house  so  comfortably. 

Werle.  Well,  and  yet  y»u  talk  as  though  I  had  not 
done  enough  for  Ekdahl's  family.  I  can  assure  vou 
these  people  have  cost  me  enough. 

Gregers.  Have  you  entered  any  of  these  expenses 
in  your  books? 

Werle.     Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Gregers.  Oh,  I  have  my  reasons.  Now  tell  me; 
when  you  interested  yourself  so  warmly  in  your  old 
friend's  son — it  was  just  before  his  marriage,  was  it  not  ? 

Werle.  Why,  deuce  take  it — after  all  these  years, 
how  can  I — it  must  be  eighteen  or  nineteen  years  ago 

Gregers.  It  is  now  about  seventeen  years  ago.  You 
wrote  me  a  letter  about  that  time — a  business  letter,  of 
course — and  in  a  postscript  you  mentoined,  quite  briefly, 
that  Hialmar  Ekdahl  had  married  a  Miss  Hansen. 

Werle.  Yes,  that  was  quite  right.  That  was  her 
name. 

Gregers.  But  you  did  not  mention  that  this  Miss 
Hansen  was  Gina  Hansen — our  former  housekeeper. 


THE   WILD   DUCK  203 

Werle  (with  a  forced  laugh  of  derision) .  No;  to  tell 
the  truth,  it  didn't  occur  to  me  that  you  were  so  particu- 
larly interested  in  our  former  housekeeper. 

Gregers.  No  more  I  was.  (Lowers  his  voice.) 
But  there  were  others  in  this  house  who  were  particularly 
interested  in  her. 

Werle.  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  (Flaring  up.) 
You  are  not  alluding  to  me,  I  hope? 

Gregers  (softly  but  firmly).     Yos,  I  am  alluding  to 

Werle.  And  you  dare — You  piesume  to — How  can 
that  ungrateful  hound — that  photographer  fellow — how 
dare  he  accuse  me ! 

Gregers.  Hialmar  has  not  said  a  word  about  these 
things.  I  don't  even  know  that  he  has  any  suspicion  of 
such  a  thing. 

Werle.  Well  then,  where  have  you  got  it  from? 
Who  can  have  given  you  such  notions  about  me? 

Gregers.  My  poor  unhappy  mother  once  told  me 
this. 

Werle.  Your  mother!  I  might  have  known  as 
much!  You  and  she — you  always  held  together  against 
me.  It  was  she  who  turned  you  against  me,  from  the 
first. 

Gregers.  No,  it  was  all  she  had  to  suffer  and  sub- 
mit to,  until  she  broke  down  and  came  to  such  a  pitiful 
end. 

Werle.  Oh,  she  had  nothing  to  suffer  or  submit  to; 
— not  more  than  most  other  people,  at  all  events.  But 
there's  no  getting  on  with  overstrained  creatures.  And  you 
could  credit  such  an  accusation — a  bare  suspicion ! 

Gregers.  Very  well;  then  I  will  make  it  my  busi- 
ness to  find  out  the  truth 


204  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Werle.  You  will  never  go  burrowing  into  old  rumours 
and  stories  ?  I  really  think  that  at  your  age  you  might 
find  something  more  useful  to  do. 

Gregers.  You  and  I  have  never  agreed  as  to  what 
is  useful. 

Werle.  Neither  about  that  nor  about  anything  else. 
Gregers,  I  believe  there  is  no  one  in  the  world  you  de- 
test as  you  do  me. 

Gregers  (tvhispering) .  I  have  seen  you  at  iruch 
too  close  quarters. 

Werle.  You  have  seen  me  with  your  mother's  tyes, 
that's  what  it  is. 

Gregers.  And  you  have  never  been  able  to  forgive 
me  for  taking  after  my  mother — and  for  having  a  kind 
of  feeling  for  her. 

Werle.  Listen,  Gregers;  there  are  many  things  that 
stand  between  us;  but  we  are  father  and  son,  after  all. 
We  ought  surely  to  be  able  to  come  to  some  sort  of  under- 
standing with  each  other.     Outwardly,,  at  any  rate. 

Gregers.  You  mean,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  as  it 
is  called? 

Werle.  Yes,  if  you  like  to  call  it  so.  Think  it  over. 
Wouldn't  one  think  it  ought  to  be  possible  ?     Eh  ? 

Gregers  (looking  at  him  coldly).  Now  I  see  that 
you  want  to  make  use  of  me  in  some  way. 

Werle.  In  such  a  close  relationship  as  ours,  the  one 
can  always  be  useful  to  the  other. 

Gregers.     Yes,  so  people  say. 

Werle.  When  I  wrote  to  you  about  coming  home, 
I  won't  deny  that  I  had  something  in  my  mind. 

Gregers.     H'm! 

Werle.  You  see,  our  business,  the  settlement  of 
your  mother's  inheritance  and  all  the  rest,  might  if  neces- 
sary have  been  arranged  between  us  by  correspondence. 


THE   WILD   DUCK  205 

But  now,  as  it  is — unfortunately — no  longer  necessary  for 
you  to  live  out  there 

Gregers.     Well,  what  then ? 

Werle.  I  want  very  much  to  have  you  at  home 
with  me  for  a  time.  I  am  a  lonely  man,  Gregers:  I  have 
always  felt  lonely,  all  my  life  through;  but  most  of  all 
now  that  I  am  getting  up  in  years.  I  feel  the  need  of 
some  one  about  me 

Gregers.     You  have  Mrs  Sorby. 

Werle.  Yes,  I  have  her;  and  she  has  become,  I 
may  say,  almost  indispensable  to  me.  She  is  lively  and 
even-tempered;  she  brightens  up  the  house;  and  that 
is  a  great  thing  for  me 

Gregers.  Well  then,  you  have  everything  just  as 
you  wish  it. 

Werle.  Yes,  but  I'm  afraid  it  can't  last.  A  woman 
so  situated  may  easily  find  herself  in  a  false  position,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world;  for  that  matter  it  does  a  man  no 
good,  either. 

Gregers.  Oh,  when  a  man  gives  such  dinners  as  you 
give,  he  can  risk  a  great  deal. 

Werle.  Yes,  but  how  about  the  woman,  Gregers  ?  I 
fear  she  won't  accept  the  situation  much  longer.  And 
even  if  she  did,  even  if,  out  of  attachment  to  me,  she  were 

to  take  her  chance  of  gossip  and  scandal  and  all  that ? 

Do  you  think,  Gregers,  you  with  your  strong  sense  of 
justice 

Gregers  (interrupts  him).  Tell  me  in  one  word; — 
are  you  thinking  of  marrying  her? 

Werle.     Suppose  I  were  thinking  of  it  ?     What  then  ? 

Gregers.     That's  what  I  say:   what  then? 

Werle.     Should  you  be  inflexibly  opposed  to  it? 

Gregers.     Not  at  all.     Not  by  any  means. 


206  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Werle.  I  thought  that  perhaps  your  devotion  to  your 
mother's  memory 

Gregers  (stopping  him  with  a  gesture).  No,  no,  no, 
don't  let  us  use  fine  phrases,  father.  I  am  not  over- 
strained. 

Werle.  Well,  whatever  you  may  or  may  not  be,  at  all 
events  you  have  lifted  a  weight  from  my  mind.  I  am 
extremely  pleased  that  I  may  reckon  on  your  concur- 
rence in  this  matter. 

Gregers.  Now  I  understand  the  use  you  want  to  put 
me  to. 

Werle.     Use  to  put  you  to?     What  an  expression! 

Gregers.  Oh,  don't  let  us  be  nice  in  our  choice  of 
words — not  when  we  are  alone  together,  at  any  rate. — 
(With  a  laugh.)  So  this  is  what  made  it  absolutely  essen- 
tial that  I  should  come  to  town  in  person.  For  the  sake 
of  Mrs.  Sorby,  we  are  to  get  up  a  pretence  at  family  life 
in  the  house; — that  will  be  something  new  indeed! 

Werle.     How  dare  you  say  such  things! 

Gregers.  Was  there  ever  any  family  life  here  ?  But 
bow  your  plans  demand  something  of  the  sort.  Of 
course;  I  can  see  that.  And  no  doubt  it  will  have  an 
excellent  effect  when  it  is  reported  that  the  son  has 
hastened  home,  on  the  wings  of  filial  piety,  to  the  grey- 
haired  father's  wedding-day.  So,  after  all,  the  relations 
between  them  are  perfectly  cordial.  Yes,  of  course. 
Father  and  son — how  indeed  could  it  be  otherwise! 
Why,  it's  the  order  of  nature 

Werle.  Yes,  it  ought  to  be  the  order  of  nature, 
Gregers 

Gregers.  Oh,  I  haven't  a  rag  of  belief  either  in 
nature  or  in  its  order. 

Werle.  Listen  to  me;  I  will  tell  you  that  there  may 
be  much  to  blame  in  my  way  of  life — (raising  his  voice) 


THE  WILD   DUCK  20? 

but  there  are  certain  things  for  which  I  demand  respect 
in  my  house! 

Gregers  (bowing  slightly).     So  I  have  observed ;  and 
therefore  I  take  my  hat  and  go. 

Werle.     You  are  going — !     Out  of  the  house? 

Gregers.     Yes,  for  there  is  only  one  thing  in  the 
world  that  J  have  respect  for. 

Werle.     And  what  is  that? 

Gregers.     You  would  only  laugh  if  I  told  you. 

Werle.    A  lonely  man  doesn't  laugh  so  easily,  Gregers. 

Gregers  (pointing  towards  the  billiard-room).     Look 
father;    the  Chamberlains  are  playing  blind-man's-buff 
with  Mrs.  Sorby. — Good-night  and  good-bye. 
(He  goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Werle    (smiling  contemptuously  after  him).     Ha — ! 
And  he  says  he  is  not  overstrained. 


SECOND  ACT 


Hialmar  Ekdahl's  studio,  a  good-sized  room,  but  poorly 
furnished,  evidently  in  tlie  top  storey  oftlie  building. 
On  tlie  right,  a  sloping  roof  of  large  panes  of  glass, 
half-covered  by  a  blue  curtain.  In  the  right-hand 
corner,  at  the  back,  the  entrance  door;  two  doors  on  the 
opposite  side.  At  the  back,  in  tlie  middle,  a  large 
double  sliding-door.  Towards  the  front,  by  the  right- 
hand  wall,  an  old,  worn  sofa  with  a  table  and  a  couple 
of  chairs.  On  the  table  a  lighted  lamp.  Photo- 
graphic apparatus  of  different  kinds  about  the  room, 
Photographs  lying  on  the  table;  bottles  and  boxes  of 
various  chemicals  on  a  bookcase  at  the  back, 

(Mrs.  Ekdahl  sits  on  a  chair  by  the  table,  sewing.  Hed  vig 
is  sitting  on  the  sofa,  drawing.) 


208  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  How  much  was  it  you  paid  for  th» 
butter  to-day  ? 

Hedvig.     It  was  forty-five  ore. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  And  then  there's  the  beer.  Look 
there — that  makes  it  over  a  crown. 

Hedvig.  Yes,  but  then  father  took  four  crowns  fifty 
for  the  photographs. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     So  much  as  that? 

Hedvig.     Yes,  exactly  four  crowns  fifty. 
(Silence.) 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  H'm — I'd  just  like  to  know  how 
your  father's  getting  on  at  the  party. 

Hedvig.     Yes,  it  would  be  fun  if  we  could  see  him. 
(Old  Ekdahl,  with  the  paper  parcel  under  his  arm, 
comes  in  by  the  door  on  the  right.) 

Hedvig.     How  late  you  are  to-day,  grandfather! 

Ekdahl.  Graberg  kept  me  so  long;  he's  always  so 
long-winded,  that  man. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  Did  you  get  any  more  copying  to  do, 
father  ? 

Ekdahl.     Yes,  this  whole  packet. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     That's  capital. 

Ekdahl  (putting  down  his  umbrella).  This  work  will 
keep  me  going  a  long  time,  Gina.  (Opens  one  of  the 
sliding-doors  at  the  back  a  little).  Hush!  (Looks  into 
tht,  dark  room;  pushes  the  door  to  again.)  Hee-hee-hee! 
They're  all  sitting  fast  asleep.  (Goes  towards  the  far- 
ther door  on  the  left.)  There  are  matches  in  here,  I 
suppose  ? 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     The  matches  is  on  the  drawers. 
(Ekdahl  goes  out.) 

Hedvig.  It's  nice  that  grandfather  has  got  all  that 
copying. 


THE   WILD   DUCK  209 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  Yes,  poor  old  father;  it  means  a  bit 
of  money  for  him- 

Hedvig.  And  he  won't  be  able  to  sit  the  whole  fore- 
noon down  at  that  horrid  Madam  Eriksen's. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  No  more  he  won't.  All  the  same — ■ 
well,  I  don't  know — but  I  think  somehow  men  are  more 
pleasant  like  when  they've  had  something  to  drink. 

Hedvig.  Ugh,  no!  Well,  they  may  be  more  pleasant; 
but  it  makes  it  so  unsafe 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     How  unsafe? 

Hedvig.  I  mean,  it's  so  unsafe  for  the  rest  of  us;  we 
never  know  quite  how  to  treat  them. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl  (looks  at  her) .  When  have  you  noticed 
that  ? 

Hedvig.  Oh,  you  can  always  notice  that.  Moldstad 
and  Riser  are  both  of  them  tipsy  very  often- 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  Then  it  was  them  two  you  were  think- 
ing of. 

(Old  Ekdahl  comes  in  again  and  is  going  out  by  the 
foremost  door  to  the  left.) 

Mrs.  Ekdahl  (half  turning  in  her  chair).  Do  you 
want  something  out  of  the  kitchen,  father  ? 

Ekdahl.     Yes,    I    do.     Don't    you    trouble. 

(Goes  out.) 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  He's  not  poking  away  at  the  fire,  is 
he?     Hedvig,  go  and  see  what  he's  about. 

(Ekdahl  comes  in  again  with  a  small  jug  of  steam- 
ing hot  water.) 

Hedvig.  Have  you  been  getting  some  hot  water, 
grandfather  ? 

Ekdahl.  Yes,  I  have.  I  want  it.  I  want  to  write, 
and  the  ink  has  got  as  thick  as  porridge. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  But  you  mustn't  sit  up  so  late  and 
hurt  your  eyes   father. 


210  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Ekdahl.  My  eyes  must  take  care  of  themselves, 
Gina.  I'm  busy,  I  tell  you.  No  one's  to  come  in  to  me. 
(He  goes  into  his  room.) 

Mrs.  Ekdahl  (softly) .  Can  you  imagine  where  he's 
got  money  from  ? 

Hedvtg.     From  Graberg,  perhaps. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Graberg  always 
pays  me. 

Hedvig.     Then  perhaps  he's  got  a  bottle  on  credit. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  Poor  father,  who'd  give  him  credit? 
(Hialmar  Ekdahl  comes  in  from  the  right.) 

Mrs.  Ekdahl  (rising).     Why,  is  that  you  already? 

Hialmar  (taking  off  his  hat) .  Yes,  most  of  the  people 
were  coming  away. 

Hedvig  (who  has  risen).  d  So  early,  father? 

Hialmar  (taking  off  his  overcoat) .  Yes,  it  was  a  dinner- 
party, you  know. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  Let  me  help  you.  (Hangs  up  his 
coat.)     Were  there  many  people  there? 

Hialmar.  Oh  no,  not  many.  We  were  about  twelve 
or  fourteen.  (To  Hedvig.)  Hasn't  grandfather  come 
home? 

Hedvig.     Yes,  he's  in  his  room. 

Hialmar.     Well,  did  he  say  anything? 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     No,  nothing  particular. 

Hialmar.     Didn't  he    say    anything    about ?    I 

heard  something  about  his  having  been  with  Graberg. 
— I'll  go  in  and  see  him  for  a  moment. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     No,  no,  better  not. 

Hialmar.  Why  not  ?  Did  he  say  he  didn't  want  me 
to  go  in ? 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  I  don't  think  he  wants  to  see  nobody; 
he  has  been  in  to  fetch  hot  water. 

Hialmar.     Oho!     Then  he's (making  a  sign). 


THE  WILD   DUCK  211 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     Yes,  I  expect  so. 

Hialmar.  Oh,  God!  my  poor  old  father!  Well,  well; 
there  let  him  sit  and  get  all  the  enjoyment  he  can. 

(Old  Ekdahl,  in  an  indoor  coat  and  with  a  lighted 
pipe,  comes  from  his  room.) 

Ekdahl.     Ah,  there  he  is.     I  thought  I  heard  you. 

Hialmar.     Yes,  I  have  just  come. 

Ekdahl.     You  didn't  see  me  there,  did  you  ? 

Hialmar.  No,  I  didn't.  I  heard  you  had  passed 
through 

Ekdahl.     Who  were  they,  all  those  fellows? 

Hialmar.  Oh,  all  sorts  of  people.  There  was 
Chamberlain  Flor  and  Chamberlain  Kaspersen  and 
Chamberlain , 

Ekdahl.  Hear  that,  Gina!  Chamberlains,  every  one 
of  them! 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     Ah,  it  must  have  been  terrible  genteel. 

Hedvig.  Did  they  want  you  to  read  something  aloud, 
father  ? 

Hialmar.  Yes,  they  wanted  me  to;  but  I  knew  better 
than  that. 

Ekdahl.     You  weren't  to  be  persuaded,  eh? 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     But  you  might  have  done  it. 

Hialmar.  No;  one  mustn't  be  at  everybody's  beck 
and  call.  That's  not  my  way,  at  any  rate.  And  I 
wasn't  at  all  in  the  mood  for  it,  either. 

Ekdahl.  No,  no;  Hialmar's  not  to  be  had  for  the 
asking,  he  isn't. 

Hialmar.  I  don't  see  why  I  should  bother  myself  to 
entertain  people  on  the  rare  occasions  when  I  go  into  so- 
ciety. And  I  let  them  know  it,  too.  Yes,  I  even  found 
myself  called  upon  to  administer  a  pretty  sharp  correc- 
tion to  one  or  two  of  those  gentlemen. 


212  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     No,  did  you  do  that? 

Ekdahl.     Was  it  any  of  the  Chamberlains  ? 

Hialmar.  Indeed  it  was.  We  had  a  little  discussion 
about  Tokay 

Ekdahl.     Ah,  yes,  there's  a  fine  wine. 

Hialmar.  Yes,  but  of  course  you  know  the  vintages 
differ;  it  all  depends  on  how  much  of  the  sun's  heat  the 
grapes  have  had. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     Why,  you  know  everything,  Ekdahl. 

Ekdahl.     And  did  they  dispute  that  with  you  ? 

Hialmar.  Yes,  they  tried  to;  but  then  I  let  them 
know  [they  were  requested  to  observe]  that  it  was  just 
the  same  with  Chamberlains;  that  with  them,  too,  dif- 
ferent batches  were  of  different  qualities, — I  said. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     What  thmgs  you  do  think  of! 

Ekdahl.     And  you  said  that  to  them— — 

Hialmar.     Right  in  their  teeth. 

Ekdahl.  Do  you  hear  that,  Gina  ?  He  said  it  right 
in  their  very  teeth. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     Fancy — !     Right  in  their  teeth! 

Hialmar  {taking  up  a  position  on  the  pedestal).  Yes, 
I  stood  like  this;  look  here — leaning  against  the  mantle- 
piece  and  playing  with  my  right  glove  while  I  told  them 
that. 

Ekdahl.     Right  in  their  teeth. 

Hedvig.  How  nice  it  is  to  see  father  in  a  dress-coat! 
It  suits  you  so  well,  father. 

Hialmar.  Yes,  doesn't  it?  And  this  one  fits  as  if  it 
had  been  made  for  me.  A  little  tight  in  the  arm-holes, 
perhaps. — (Takes  off  the  coat.)  But  now  I'll  put  on  my 
frock-coat — (does  so)  there's  a  more  homely  feeling  about 
it.  (To  Gina.)  Don't  forget  to  send  the  coat  back  to 
Molvik  first  thing  to-morrow  morning. 


THE  WILD   DUCK  213 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     I'll  be  sure  and  see  to  it. 

Hialmar  (seating  himself  on  the  sofa).  Ah,  one  is 
never  so  comfortable  as  in  the  corner  of  one's  own  sofa — ■ 
with  one's  feet  under  one's  own  table. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  And  with  a  glass  of  beer  and  a 
pipe 

Hialmar.     Have  we  any  beer  in  the  house? 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     Yes,  we  haven't  forgotten  that. 

(Goes  into  tlie  kitchen.) 

Hedvig.     Here's  your  pipe  and  tobacco 

Hialmar.  Thanks!  I've  been  regularly  longing  for 
my  pipe.  Werle's  cigars  may  be  good  enough;  but  a 
good  pipe  is  something  different  in  the  long  run. 

Mrs.  Ekdahl  (comes  in  from  the  kitchen  with  bottles 
of  beer  and  glasses) .  There,  now  you  can  quench  your 
thirst. 

Hialmar.  That's  capital.  Come  now,  father,  we'll 
have  a  glass  together. 

Ekdahl.     Hum;   I  think  I'll  fill  my  pipe  first. 

(Goes  into  his  room.) 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  (smiling).     Fill  his  pipe! 

Hialmar.  Oh,  well,  well,  well;  leave  him  alone,  poor 
old  father. 

(There  is  a  knock  at  the  door  on  the  right.) 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  Hush,  wasn't  that  a  knock  at  the 
door  ?     Who  can  it  be  ?     (Goes  and  opens  the  door.) 

Gregers  (in  the  passage).  Excuse  me;  does  not 
Mr.  Ekdahl,  the  photographer,  live  here  ? 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     Yes,  he  does. 

Hialmar  (rising).  Gregers!  You  here  after  all? 
Well,  come  in  then. 

Gregers  (coming  in).  I  told  you  I  would  come  and 
see  you. 


214  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hialmar.     But  this  evening ?     Have  you  left  the 

party? 

Gregers.  I  have  left  both  the  party  and  the  house. 
Good  evening,  Mrs.  Ekdahl ;  can  you  remember  me  after 
all  these  years?     Do  you  recognise  me? 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.     Oh,  yes,  I  do  indeed. 

Hialmar.     Left  your  father's  house,  did  you  say ? 

Gregers.  Yes,  I'm  staying  at  a  hotel  to-night,  and 
to-morrow  I  shall  take  a  lodging.  By-the-bye,  Hialmar, 
you  have  a  couple  of  rooms  to  let. 

Hialmar.     Yes,  so  we  have,  but 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  But  I'm  sure  they're  not  the  sort  of 
rooms  for  you,  Mr.  Werle. 

Gregers.  You  need  not  be  afraid  of  that;  I  expect 
I  shall  be  satisfied;  and  we  can  easily  agree  about  the 
rent. 

Hialmar.  Well,  that  is  very  fortunate  for  us. — Now, 
since  you're  here,  you'll  sit  down,  won't  you  ? 

Gregers.     Thanks;  these  are  regular  artists' quarters. 

Hialmar.     This  is  the  studio,  as  you  see ■ 

Mrs.  Ekdahl.  But  it's  the  largest  of  our  rooms,  so 
we  generally  sit  here. 


II 
FROM  THE  SECOND  ACT 

Gregers.  You  were  a  great  sportsman  then,  Lieuten- 
ant Ekdal. 

Ekdal.  So  I  was;  so  I  was;  went  shooting  every 
day.     [Uniform ] 


THE   WILD   DUCK  215 

Gregers.  And  now  I  suppose  you  never  get  any 
shooting  ? 

Ekdal.  No,  I  never  get  any  shooting  now.  That  is, 
not  in  the  old  way. 

Hialmar.  Sit  down,  father,  and  have  a  glass  of  beer. 
Sit  down,  Gregers,  and  help  yourself. 

(Ekdal  and  Gregers  seat  themselves  on  the  sofa; 
the  others  sit  at  the  table.) 

Gregers.  Can  you  remember,  Lieutenant  Ekdal. 
that  Christmas  I  came  up  and  visited  you  with  Hialmar  ? 

Ekdal.  At  the  works?  That  must  be  a  long  time 
ago. 

Gregers.  I  suppose  it  is  now  more  than  twenty  years 
ago.  It  was  the  winter  there  were  so  many  wolves  up 
there. 

Ekdal.  Ah,  was  it  that  winter!  Then  perhaps  you 
used  to  be  with  us  at  night,  when  we  lay  in  the  stables 
and  watched  for  them? 

Gregers.  Yes,  I  was  there.  Hialmar  came  too  the 
first  night;  but  then  he  got  tired  of  it.  But  I  kept  on. 
Don't  you  remember,  you  put  out  the  carcase  of  a  dead 
horse  in  front  of  the  stable-door? 

Ekdal.  Yes,  to  be  sure-  it  lay  close  to  a  big  briar 
bush. 

Gregers.     Quite  right. 

Ekdal.  And  then  there  was  a  heap  of  stones  along- 
side, that  cast  a  shadow  in  the  moonlight 

Gregers.  Yes,  and  there  was  moonlight  those  nights, 
as  clear  as  to-night 

Ekdal.  But  the  wolves  didn't  come  in  the  moon- 
light. But  don't  you  remember  that  morning  in  the 
early  dawn,  after  the  moon  had  set ? 

Gregers.     When  thirteen  of  them  came  together ? 


216  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Ekdal.  No,  do  you  remember  that!  I  shot  one  of 
them  by  the  carcase  and  another  as  they  were  running 
away. 

Gregers.  Yes,  you  were  indeed  a  great  sportsman, 
Lieutenant  Ekdal. 

Ekdal.     Oh  yes,  oh  yes;  not  so  bad.     I've  shot  bears 
too;    shot  all  kinds  of  things,  both  beasts  and  birdsc 
For  the  woods,  you  see — the  woods,  the  woods — ! 
What  are  the  woods  like  up  there  now? 


Ekdal.  But  we  have  to  thank  him  for  her,  all  the 
same.  He  was  out  shooting,  you  see;  and  he  brought  her 
down;   but  she  was  only  wonnded 

Gregers.  Ah!  She  got  a  couple  of  slugs  or  so  in  her 
body 

Hialmar.     Yes,  she  got  a  couple  from  behind. 

Gregers.     Oh!   from  behind? 

Ekdal.  You  always  have  to  shoot  wild  duck  from 
behind. 

Gregers.  Of  course;  from  behind  they  are  easier 
to  hit. 

Ekdal.  I  should  think  so;  if  you  shoot  against  the 
breast,  the  shot  glances  off. 


Ekdal.  Well,  your  father  had  such  an  amazingly 
good  dog,  you  see;  one  of  these  new-fangled,  long-haired 
water-dogs,  and  he  dived  in  after  the  duck  and  fetched 
her  up  again. 

Gregers.     And  then  she  was  sent  to  you  ? 

Hialmar.     She  was  not  sent  to  us  at  once;  at  first  your 


THE  WILD   DUCK  217 

father  took  her  home.  But  she  wouldn't  thrive  there 
properly. 

Gregers.  No,  no,  that's  not  a  good  place  for  wild- 
fowl [wild  duck]. 

Hialmar.  No,  you  can  imagine  it  wasn't,  among  all 
the  tame  ones.  They  were  always  setting  upon  her  and 
taking  her  food  from  her,  so  that  she  had  no  chance  of 
recovering.     So  Pettersen  was  told  to  put  an  end  to  her. 

Ekdal  {half  asleep).     H'm — yes — Pettersen — yes ■ 

Hialmar  (softly).  That  was  how  we  got  her,  you  see; 
for  father  knows  Pettersen  a  little;  and  when  he  heard 
about  the  wild  duck  he  got  her  handed  over  to  us. 

Gregers.  And  now  she  thrives  [as]  well  [as  possible} 
in  the  garret  there? 

Hialmar.  Splendidly,  yes.  She  has  lived  in  there 
so  long  now  that  she  has  forgotten  her  natural  wild  life; 
and  it  all  depends  on  that. 

Gregers.  You  are  right  there,  Hialmar.  If  one 
would  keep  wild  duck — and  if  they  are  to  thrive  and 
grow  big  and  fat — I  think  the  only  way  is  to  shut  them  up 
in  a  garret,  so  that  they  never  get  a  glimpse  of  the  clouds 
or  the  sea. 

Hialmar.  Yes,  yes,  and  then  they  forget,  you  see. 
And  after  all,  what  they  have  forgotten,  they  will  never 
feel  the  want  of. 

Gregers.  No,  and  then  in  time  they  can  grow  fat. 
— But  look  here,  Hialmar,  you  said  you  had  rooms  to 
let,  spare  rooms. 


218  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 


THIRD  ACT 

Hialmar  Ekdal's  studio.    It  is  morning;   the  daylight 

shines  through  the  window  on  the  right. 
Hialmar  is  sitting  at  the  table,  busy  with  some  photo- 
graphic  negatives  and  prints.     Presently  Gin  a,  wear- 
ing her  hat  and  cloak,  enters  from  the  right.     She 
has  a  covered  basket  on  Iter  arm. 
HiaiiMar.     Back  already?     Did  you  look  in  at  Gre- 
gers'  room? 

Gina.     Yes.     He  has  arranged  everything  as  he  likes 
it.     He'll  do  everything  for  himself,  he  said. 
Hialmar.     I  looked  in  upon  him  too. 


Ekdal.     Yes,  exactly;   exactly. 

(Hialmar  and  Ekdal  open  the  upper  half-door  oftJte 
garret.  The  morning  sun  is  shining  in  through  the  sky- 
lights; doves  are  flying  in  all  directions;  some  sit  cooing , 
upon  the  perches;  the  cocks  and  hens  are  heard  crowing 
and  clucking  now  and  then.) 

Hialmar  {opens  one  of  the  lower  half-doors  a  little  way). 
Squeeze  through  now,  father. 

Ekdal  {creeps  through  the  opening).  Aren't  you  com- 
ing too? 

Hialmar.  Well,  I  almost  think —  {Sees  Gina  at  the 
kitchen  door.)  No,  I  haven't  time;  I  must  work.  And 
then  there  was  the  net —  {He  pulls  a  cord,  a  piece  of 
stretched  fishing  net  slips  down  in  front  of  the  opening.) 
So!     {Goes  to  the  table.) 

Gina.     Is  he  in  there  again? 


THE  WILD   DUCK  219 

Hialmar.  Would  you  rather  have  had  him  slip  down 
to  Madam  Eriksen's?  Do  you  want  anything?  You 
know  you  said 

Gina.  I  only  wanted  to  ask  if  you  think  we  can  lay 
the  table  for  lunch  here? 

Hialmar.  Yes;  we  have  no  appointment  for  to-day, 
I  suppose? 

Gina.     No. 

Hialmar.  Well  then  I  hope  there  won't  be  any  ap- 
pointment either;   and  so  we  can  have  lunch  here. 

Gina.  All  right;  but  there's  no  hurry  about  it;  you 
can  have  the  table  yet  awhile. 

Hialmar  (sitting  down  again).  Oh,  bless  me,  I'm 
sticking  at  it  as  hard  as  I  can! 

(Gina  goes  out  into  the  kitchen  again.) 

Ekdal  (appears  behind  the  net).  I'm  afraid  we  shall 
have  to  move  the  water-trough  after  all,  Hialmar. 

Hialmar.     What  else  have  I  been  saying  all  along? 

Ekdal.     H'm — h'm — h'm.     (Is  no  longer  seen.) 
(Hialmar  goes  on  working  a  little;   glances  towards 
the  opening  and  half  rises.     Hedvig  comes  in  from 
the  kitchen.) 

Hialmar  (sits  down  hurriedly) .  What  do  you  want  ? 
Perhaps  you  are  told  off  to  watch  me  ? 

Hedvig.  No,  no.  Isn't  there  anything  I  could  help 
you  with? 

Hialmar.  Oh,  no;  it  is  right  that  I  should  bear  the 
burden  alone — so  long  as  my  strength  holds  out. 

(Hedvig  goes  over  to  tlie  doorway  and  looks  for  a 
moment  into  the  garret.) 

Hialmar.     Tell  me,  what  is  he  doing  ? 

Hedvig.  I  think  he's  making  a  new  path  to  the  water- 
trough. 


220  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hialmar.     He  can  never  manage  that  alone.     Look, 

Hedvig — you  are  so  clever;   take  this  brush 

Hedvig.     Oh,  yes,  father! 

Hialmar.     Only  for  a  second,  you  know.     It's  this 
retouching — here  is  one  to  copy. 

Hedvig.     Yes,  I  know  how  to  do  it;    I've  done  it 
with  the  others,  you  know. 

Hialmar.     Only  a  second;   and  then  I  shall  have  fin- 
ished this  job. 

(He  pushes  one  of  the  lower  half-doors  a  little  to  one 
side,  creeps  into  the  garret  and  draws  tlie  door  to 
after  him.  Hedvig  sits  at  work,  retouching;  Hial- 
mar and  Ekdal  are  heard  disputing  inside.) 


Gregers.  I  suppose  so;  if  must  be  a  sort  of  world  by 
itself. 

Hedvig.  Oh,  yes,  quite.  And  there  are  such  lots  of 
wonderful  things. 

Gregers.     Indeed  ? 

Hedvig.  Yes,  there  are  big  cupboards  full  of  books; 
and  a  great  many  of  the  books  have  pictures  in  them. 

Gregers.     Aha! 

Hedvig.  And  there's  an  old  bureau  with  drawers  and 
flaps,  and  a  big  clock  with  figures  that  come  out;  but 
it  isn't  going  now. 

Gregers.  So  time  has  come  to  a  standstill  in  there- 
in the  wild  duck's  domain. 

Hedvig.  Yes.  And  then  there's  an  old  paint-box,  and 
all  the  books. 

Gregers.     And  you  read  the  books,  I  suppose? 

Hedvig.  Oh,  yes;  most  of  them  are  English  though, 
and  I  don't  understand  English.  But  then  I  look  at  the 
pictures.     There  is  one  great  big  book  called  "  Harrison's 


THE  WILD   DUCK  221 

History  of  London,"  [it  must  be  a  hundred  years  old]; 
and  there  are  such  heaps  of  pictures  in  it.  At  the  begin- 
ning there  is  Death  with  an  hour-glass,  and  other  figures. 
T  think  that  is  horrid.  But  then  there  are  other  pictures 
of  churches,  and  castles,  and  streets,  and  great  ships  sail- 
ing on  the  sea. 

Gregers.  And  when  you  look  at  all  these  pictures,  I 
suppose  you  want  to  go  over  to  London  ? 

Hedvig.  Oh,  of  course  I  can't  go  there;  but  there  is 
no  need  to,  either. 

Gregers.     No,  no,  because  you  know  it,  of  course. 
And  besides,  you  couldn't  very  well  tear  yourself  away 
from  the  wild  duck. 

Hedvig.  I  should  miss  her,  I  know.  For  there  is  so 
much  that  is  strange  about  her.  Nobody  knows  her,  and 
nobody  knows  where  she  came  from 


(Gina  comes  in  from  the  kitchen  with  tlie  table  things.) 

Gregers  {rising) .     I  have  come  in  upon  you  too  early. 

Gina.     Oh,  no;  we're  nearly  ready  now.     Clear  the 
table,  Hedvig. 

(Hedvig  clears  away  her  things;  she  and  Gina  lay 
the  cloth  during  what  follows.  Gregers  sits  down 
and  turns  over  an  album.) 

Gregers.     I  hear  you  can  retouch,  Mrs.  Ekdal. 

Gina  {with  a  side  glance).     Yes,  I  can. 

Gregers.     That  was  exceedingly  lucky. 

Gina.     How — lucky  ? 

Gregers.     That   Hialmar   took   to   photography,    I 
mean. 

Gina.    I  can  take  photographs  too;   I  learned  that. 

Gregers.     So  it  is  really  you  that  carry  on  the  busi- 
ness, I  suppose? 


222  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Gina.     Yes,  when  Ekdal  hasn't  time  himself — — 
(A  shot  is  fired  within  the  garret.) 

Geegers  (starting  up).     What's  that? 

Gina.     Ugh!   now  they're  firing  again! 

Gregers  {going  towards  the  doorway).  Have  they 
firearms  in  there? 

Hialmar  {inside  tlie  net).  Are  you  there?  I  didn't 
know. 

Gregers.     Do  you  go  shooting  in  there  ? 

Hialmar  (showing  a  revolver).  Only  with  this 
thing 

Gina.  Yes,  you'll  do  yourself  a  mischief  some  day 
with  that  there  pigstol. 

Hialmar  (snappishly).  I  have  told  you  so  often  that 
it's  called  a  pistol! 

Gina.     Oh,  one's  just  as  good  as  the  other. 

Gregers.     So  you  go  shooting,  too,  up  here  ? 

Hialmar.  Only  a  little  target  practice.  Mostly  to 
please  father,  you  understand.  And  then  the  fortunate 
thing  about  it  is  that  no  one  can  hear  it  on  the  floor  below. 

Gregers.     You  have  a  fowling-piece  too,  I  see. 

Hialmar.  That  is  father's.  It's  of  no  use;  some- 
thing has  gone  wrong  with  the  lock.  But  it's  fun  to 
have  it  all  the  same;  for  we  can  take  it  to  pieces  now 
and  then,  and  clean  and  grease  it,  and  screw  it  together 
again,  you  see. 

Hedvig  (wlw  has  approached).  Now  you  can  see 
the  wild  duck  properly. 

Gregers.  I  was  just  looking  at  her.  One  of  her 
wings  seems  to  me  to  droop  a  bit. 

Hialmar.  Well,  no  wonder;  her  wing  was  broken, 
you  know. 

Gregers.     And  she  trails  one  foot  a  little;    isn't  that 


THE  WILD   DUCK 

Hialmar.     Perhaps  a  very  little  bit. 

Hedvig.  Yes,  it  was  by  that  foot  the  dog  took  hold 
of  her. 

Hialmar.  But  she  is  not  a  bit  the  worse  for  it;  and 
that  is  simply  marvellous  for  a  creature  that  has  had  a 
charge  of  shot  in  her  body,  and  has  been  between  a 
dog's  teeth 

Gregers.  — and  that  has  lain  in  the  depths  of  the 
sea — so  long. 

Hedvig  (smiling).     Yes. 

Gina  (at  the  table) .  Hedvig,  you  must  come  and  help 
me  now. 

(Gina  and  Hedvig  go  out  into  the  kitchen.) 

Hialmar  (crawls  through  tlie  lower  half-door  and 
comes  into  the  studio).  I  won't  ask  you  to  go  in  to 
father;  he  doesn't  like  it.  I  may  as  well  shut  up  before 
the  others  come.  (Draws  up  the  net  and  shuts  the  upper 
half-doors.)  All  these  contrivances  are  necessary,  you 
see,  for  Gina  objects  to  having  rabbits  and  fowls  in  the 
studio. 

Gregers.  Of  course;  a  good  housekeeper  like  your 
wife 

Hialmar.  This  arrangement  of  the  fishing  net  is  my 
own  invention.  And  it's  really  quite  amusing  to  have 
things  of  this  sort  to  potter  with,  and  to  put  to  rights  again 
when  now  and  then  they  get  out  of  order. 

Gregers.  You  and  I  have  got  on  well  in  the  world, 
Hialmar. 

Hialmar.     How  do  you  mean  ? 

Gregers.  I  have  gone  farthest;  for  I  have  gone  so 
far  that  soon  I  shall  be  fit  for  absolutely  nothing. 

Hialmar.  You  needn't  be  fit  for  anything  either. 
You  can  live  very  well  without  that. 

Gregers.     Do  you  tnink  sot 


224  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hialmar.  Yes,  I  certainly  think  that  you  are  well 
enough  off. 

Gregers.     Well,  but  what  about  yourself? 

Hialmar  (in  a  lower  voice).  Is  it  my  fault  that 
things  went  as  they  did — that  I  was  thrown  cut  of  my 
course ? 

Gregers.     That  is  not  what  I  mean 

Hialmar.  Then  perhaps  you  mean  that  I  don't  work 
my  way  to  the  front; — perhaps  you  think  I  don't  toil  and 
drudge  enough. 

Gregers.  I  don't  know  at  all  how  much  you  toil 
and  drudge. 

Hialmar.  Yes,  of  course  you  think  there's  too  much 
time  wasted  over  useless  things. 

Gregers,     Not  time  but  will. 

Hialmar.  But  how  can  I  let  my  poor  old  father  go  so 
absolutely  alone  ?  Isn't  it  right  that  I  should  give  a  little 
thought  to  the  trifles  that  amuse  him? 

Gregers.     Is  it  altogether  for  your  father's  sake ? 

Hialmar.  Oh,  no,  I  dare  say  it's  for  my  own  as  well. 
I  need  something  to  take  me  out  of  reality. 

Gregers.     Then  you  are  not  happy  after  all  ? 

Hialmar.  Happy — happy  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  am,  in  a  way. 
I  am  quite  comfortable — as  far  as  that  goes.  But  of 
course  you  can  imagine  that  a  position  like  that  of  a 
photographer — for  a  man  like  me,  is  nothing  but  a 
transitional  phase. 

Gregers.     Ah! 

Hialmar.  Of  course.  And  therefore — I  tell  you 
plainly,  Gregers,  I  need  something  to  fill  up  the  inter- 
val  

Gregers.     Could  not  your  work  do  that  ? 

Hialmar.  No,  no,  no,  not  work  alone;  I  must  dream 
the  interval  away — leap  over  it. 


THE   WILD   DUCK  225 

Gregers.  And  when  the  interval  is  past — what  comes 
ihen  ? 

Hialmar.  Ah,  then  comes  the  moment,  it  is  to  be 
hoped. 

Gregers.     What  moment? 

Hialmar.     I  have  a  mission,  you  must  know. 

Gregers.     Well,  what  do  you  mean  by  that? 

Hialmar.  A  mission — a  life's  mission.  It  is  I,  you 
see,  who  must  restore  our  family  name  to  honour.  Who 
else  should  do  it? 

Gregers.     Then  that  is  your  mission. 

Hialmar.     Yes,  of  course. 

Gregers.  And  what  course  do  you  propose  to  fol- 
low? 

Hialmar.  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  how  can  I  tell  you 
that  beforehand  ?  It  depends  so  enormously  upon  how 
circumstances  shape  themselves  when  the  moment  arrives. 

Gregers.  And  you  have  no  doubt  at  all  about  the 
moment  ? 

Hialmar.  That  would  be  doubting  my  own  purpose 
in  life. 

Gregers.  Do  you  know  for  certain  that  you  have 
any  purpose? 

Hialmar.     Are  you  mad  ? 

Gregers.  Look  here,  Hialmar,  there  is  something  of 
the  wild  duck  in  you.  You  were  once  wounded,  and  you 
dived  down  and  bit  yourself  fast  in  the  undergrowth. 

Hialmar.     That  was  odd. 

Gregers.  But  now  I'm  going  to  see  if  I  can't  get 
you  up  again.  For  I  too  think  I  have  a  sort  of  mission 
in  life,  you  must  know.  Not  in  the  way  you  mean; — 
not  because  I  feel  it  as  a  purpose  or  as  a  duty  towards 
others,  but  because  I  feel  it  as  a  necessity  to  myself. 


226  FROM   IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Hialmar.     No,  my  dear  Gregers,  I  don't  understand 
a  word  of  all  this. — Ah,  now  we're  going  to  have  lunch. 
(Gina  and  Hedvig  bring  bottles  of  ale,  a  decanter 
of  brandy,  glasses,  etc.     At  the  same  time,  Relling 
and  Molvik  enter  from  the  right.) 

Gina.     Ah,  you  two  have  come  in  the  nick  of  time. 

Relling.  Molvik  got  it  into  his  head  that  he  could 
smell  herring-salad,  and  then  there  was  no  holding  him. 
— Good  morning  again,  Ekdal. 

Hialmar.  Gregers,  may  I  introduce  you  to  Doctor 
Relling — Mr.  Molvik. 

Relling.     Oh,  Mr.  Werle!     You've  just  moved  in? 

Gregers.     I  moved  in  this  morning. 

Relling.  Molvik  and  I  live  right  under  you;  so  you 
haven't  far  to  go  for  the  doctor  and  the  clergyman,  if  you 
should  need  anything  in  that  line. 

Gregers.  Thanks,  it's  not  quite  unlikely;  for  yes- 
terday we  were  thirteen  at  table. 

Hialmar.     Were  we  thirteen  ? 

Relling.  You  may  make  your  mind  easy,  Ekdal; 
I'll  be  hanged  if  the  finger  of  fate  points  to  you. 

Hialmar.     I  hope  not.     But  come  and  sit  down. 

Gregers.     Shall  we  not  wait  for  your  father? 

Hialmar.  No,  his  lunch  will  be  taken  in  to  him. 
Come  along! 

(The  men  seat  themselves  at  table.  Gina  and  Hed- 
vig go  backwards  and  forwards  and  wait  upon 
them.) 

Relling.  Molvik  was  frightfully  screwed  yesterday, 
Mrs.  Ekdal. 

Gina.     Really?     Is  that  true,  Molvik? 

Molvik.     Oh,  that  depends  on  how  you  take  it. 

Relling.     Didn't  you  hear  us  when  we  came  home  ? 

Gina.     No,  I  can't  say  I  did. 


THE   WILD   DUCK  227 

Relling.  Well,  Molvik  was  disgusting  yesterday. 
But  it  agrees  with  Molvik,  Mr.  Werle.  I'm  his  doctor 
and  I  prescribe  a  spree  for  him  now  and  then. 

Gregers.     Is  Mr.  Molvik  an  obedient  patient ? 

Relling.  I  can't  complain.  But  he  understands 
that  it  has  got  to  be,  you  see;  for  Molvik  is  daemonic. 

Gregers.     Dsemonic  ? 

Relling.     Molvik  is  a  dsemonic  nature,  yes. 

Gregers.     H'm. 

Molvik.     Yes,  that's  what  they  say  about  me. 

Relling.  And  persons  of  daemonic  character  can't 
walk  straight  through  the  world,  you  see.  That  kind  of 
people  must  meander  a  little  now  and  then.  You  must 
have  lived  a  very  long  time  up  at  the  works,  Mr.  Werle. 

Gregers.     I  have  lived  there  a  good  many  years. 

Relling.  How  the  devil  have  you  managed  to  en- 
dure it? 

Gregers.     Oh,  if  one  has  books ■ 

Relling.  Books!  They  will  only  make  you  read  your- 
self mad. 

Gregers.     Well,  there  are  people  up  there  too. 

Relling.  Yes,  the  work-people.  Look  here,  my  good 
sir,  I  dare  swear  you  have  a  mission  in  life. 

Gregers.     I  believe  so  too. 

Hialmar.  And  it  is  a  belief  that  gives  one  strength, 
Relling. 

Relling.  Yes,  I  know  you  can  say  a  word  or  two 
about  that. 

Hialmar.     Oh,  yes. 

(A  knock  at  the  garret  door.) 

Gina.     Hedvig,  opens  the  door  for  grandfather. 
(Hedvig  opens  the  door  a  little  way;    Old  Ekdal 
crawls  out.) 


228  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Ekdal  (mumbling) .  Good  morning,  gentlemen  I  Good 
appetite  to  you!     H'm — !  (Goes  into  his  room.) 

Relling.  Let  us  drink  a  glass  to  him,  Ekdal,  and 
may  he  soon  be  in  regimentals  again. 

Hialmar.     Thanks. 

Gregers.     Regimentals  ? 

Relling.     His  lieutenant's  uniform,  of  course. 

Gregers  (looking  at  Hialmar).  Is  that  all  you  think 
about  ? 

Hialmar.  Well,  of  course  the  rehabilitation  of  his 
honour  goes  with  it.  But  the  uniform  is  the  most  im- 
portant thing  to  father.     An  old  soldier 

Gregers.  Yes,  but  you!  Yourself,  Hialmar:  you  are 
not  going  to  be  satisfied  with  that  sort  of  thing. 

Relling.     Then  what  the  devil  more  should  he  want? 

Gregers.  So  it  is  only  the  brand  of  punishment  you 
would  wash  off  him! 

Relling.  Upon  my  soul,  I  think  that  wouldn't  be  a 
bad  thing  at  all. 

Gregers.  And  I  imagined  it  was  the  guilt  itself  you 
wished  to  release  him  from! 

Relling.     Now  we  are  going  to  hear  something! 

Hialmar.     What  is  past  cannot  be  altered. 

Gregers.  Do  you  believe  he  was  as  guilty  as  he  ap- 
peared to  be? 

Hialmar.  I  don't  believe  he  had  any  idea  of  what  he 
was  doing. 

Gregers  (rising).  And  even  so  you  have  lived  here 
all  these  years,  gone  sluggishly  through  life  and  waited 
and  waited — or  perhaps  not  even  that 

Relling.  You've  been  brooding  too  long  up  in  those 
woods,  Mr.  Werle. 

Gregers.  If  I  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  such 
a  father  as  you  have-    - 


THE  WILD   DUCK  229 

Kialmar.     The  good  fortune ! 

Gregers.  — then  I  would  have  been  a  different  sort 
of  son  to  him —  But  it  is  your  surroundings  that  have 
pulled  you  down  into  the  mire. 

Relling.     Look  here,  I  say! 

Molvik.     Are  you  referring  to  me? 

Hialmar.  What  have  you  to  say  about  my  surround- 
ings "t 

Gina,  Hush,  hush,  Ekdal.  Don't  say  any  more 
about  it. 

Gregers.  I  have  this  to  say,  that  a  man  who  lives 
his  life,  his  most  intimate  home  life,  in  a  marsh  of  lies 
and  deceit  and  concealment 

Hialmar.     Have  you  gone  mad! 

Reeling  (jumps  up).     Be  quiet,  Mr.  Werle! 

Hialmar.     His  most  intimate  home  life ! 

(A  knock  at  tJie  door  on  Die  right.) 

Gina.     Hush,  be  quiet;   somebody's  coming. 

(Goes  over  to  the  door.) 

Hialmar.     Have  you  gone  stark  mad,  Gregers! 

Gina  (opens  the  door  and  draws  back).  Oh — what's 
this! 

(Werle,  in  a  fur  coat,  advances  one  step  into  the 
room.) 

Werle.  Excuse  me;  but  I  think  my  son  is  staying 
here. 

Gina  (with  a  gulp).     Yes. 

Hialmar  (who  has  risen).     Won't  you ? 

Werle.     Thank  you,  I  wish  to  speak  to  my  son. 

Gregers.     WTiat  is  it?     Here  I  am. 

Werle.  I  want  a  few  words  with  you,  in  your 
room. 

Gregers.     And  I,  for  my  part,  desire  witnesses. 


230  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Werle.  What  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about  is  not 
of  such  a  nature  that 

Gregers.  I  am  not  disposed,  for  the  present,  to 
speak  about  anything  but  the  Ekdals'  affairs. 

Werle.     The  Ekdals'  affairs  ? 

Gregers.  And  these  two  gentlemen  belong  to  the 
house  in  a  way. 

Werle.  What  I  have  to  say  to  you  concerns  only 
you  and  me. 

Gregers.  Since  I  lost  my  mother  I  think  there  is 
only  one  thing  in  the  world  that  concerns  me,  that  is 
the  Ekdals'  affairs. 

Hialmar.  I  don't  know  what  there  is  especially  to 
talk  about  in  our  affairs. 

Werle.     Nor  I  either.   * 

Gregers.  But  I  know  it,  and  I  intend  to  shout  it  out 
at  every  street  corner.  Every  man  in  the  country  shall 
hear  that  the  culprit  was  not  Lieutenant  Ekdal,  but  one 
who  goes  about  free  and  unfettered  to  this  very  day. 

Werle.  And  you  dare  to  say  that,  you  madman! — ■ 
For  I  suppose  it's  to  me  that  you  allude. 

Gregers.     No,  I  allude  more  particularly  to  myself. 

Werle.  What  are  you  thinking  of?  You  knew 
nothing 

Gregers.  I  had  my  doubts  at  the  time  it  all  hap- 
pened; if  I  had  spoken  to  Ekdal  then,  while  there  was 
yet  time 

Werle.     Well,  why  didn't  you  speak? 

Gregers.     I  was  afraid  of  you. 

Werle.  Evasions,  inventions,  imagination.  You 
yourself  gave  evidence  in  court 

Gregers.  Yes,  I  was  cowardly  enough  for  that.  J 
was  afraid  to  take  my  share  of  the  guilt. 


THE  WILD   DUCK  231 

Werle.  Oh,  this  is  that  desperately  sick  conscience 
of  yours. 

Gregers.  It  is  you  who  have  made  my  conscience 
*ick. 

Werle.  You're  mistaken;  it  is  a  legacy  from  your 
mother,  Gregers.     The  only  one  she  left  you. 

Gregers.  Are  you  still  unable  to  forget  that  you 
[were  mistaken  when  you]  thought  she  would  bring  you 
a  fortune  ? 

Werle.  We  won't  speak  of  these  matters.  I  came 
to  ask  whether  you  will  return  home  with  me. 

Gregers.     No. 

Werle.     And  you  won't  enter  the  firm  either? 

Gregers.     No. 

Werle.  Very  good.  But  as  I  am  thinking  of  mar- 
rying again,  your  share  of  the  property  will  fall  to  you  at 
once. 

Gregers.     I  do  not  want  that. 

Werle.     You  don't  want  it? 

Gregers.     No. 

Werle.     Are  you  going  up  to  the  works  again  ? 

Gregers.  No;  I  consider  myself  released  from  your 
service. 

Werle.     Then  what  are  you  going  to  live  upon  ? 

Gregers.     I  have  laid  by  a  little  out  of  my  salary. 

Werle.     How  long  will  that  last? 

Gregers.     I  think  it  will  last  my  time. 

Werle.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Gregers.     I  shall  answer  no  more  questions. 

Werle.     Good-bye  then,  Gregers. 

Gregers.     Good-bye. 

(Werle  goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Hialmar  (looking  in  through  the  sitting-room  door). 
He's  gone,  isn't  he? 


232  FROM   IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Gregers.     Yes. 

(Gina  and  Hedvig  enter  from  the  kitchen;  Relling 
and  Molvik  jfrora  the  sitting-room.) 

Relling.     That  luncheon-party  was  a  failure. 

Gregers.     Put  on  your  coat,  Hialmar;  I  want  you  to 
come  for  a  long  walk  with  me. 

Hialmar.     With  pleasure. 

Gregers.     I'm  only  going  to  fetch  my  overcoat. 

(Goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Gina.     Don't  go  with  him,  Ekdal. 

Relling.     Stay  where  you  are;   don't  go  out  now. 

Hialmar  (putting  on  his  overcoat).     Not  for  the  world. 
I  must  find  out  what  all  this  means 

Relling.     But  devil  take  it,  don't  you  see  that  the 
fellow's  mad,  cracked,  demented! 

Gina.     There,    what   did   I    tell   you,    Ekdal.     [His 
mother  before  him  had  strange  fits  like  that  sometimes.] 

Relling.     You  mustn't  pay  any  attention  to  his  non- 
sense. 

Gina.     No,  no,  don't. 

Hialmar.     Then  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  him  at  any  rate. 
Good-bye.  (Goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Relling.     It's  a  thousand  pities  the  fellow  didn't  fall 
on  his  head  down  one  of  those  mines! 

Gina.     Do  you  think  Gregers  Werle  is  mad  ? 

Relling.     No,  worse  luck;  he's  no  madder  than  most 
people. 

Molvik:.     Not  daemonic  either? 

Relling.     No,  it's  only  you  that  are  that,  Molvik. 
But  one  disease  he  has  certainly  got  in  his  system. 

Gina.     What's  the  matter  with  him  then? 

Relling.     Well,  I'll  tell  you.     He  is  suffering  from 
an  acute  attack  of  integrity. 

Gina.    Integrity  ? 


THE   WILD   DUCK  233 

Hedvig,     What  kind  of  disease  is  that  ? 
Relling.     It's  a  national  disease;  but  it  only  appears 
sporadically. — Come  on,  Molvik. 

(He  nods  and  goes  out  to  the  right  with  Molvik. 
Gina  moves  restlessly  across  the  room;  Hedvig 
looks  searchingly  at  her.) 


FOURTH  ACT 


Hialmar  Ekdal's  studio.     Afternoon.     It  is  beginning 
to  grow  dusk. 

(Hedvig  is  moving  about  the  studio.     Gina  enters 
from  tJie  kitchen.) 

Gina.     Not  yet? 

Hedvig.     No. 

Gina.     Are  you  sure  he's  not  in  Werle's  room? 

Hedvig.     No,  it's  locked. 

Gina.     Nor  down  in  Relling's  either? 

Hedvig.     No,  I've  been  down  twice  and  asked. 

Gina.  And  his  dinner's  standing  and  getting  cold  out 
there. 

Hedvig.  Yes,  can  you  imagine  what  has  become  of 
him,  mother  ?   He's  always  home  so  punctually  to  dinner. 

Gina.     Oh,  he'll  be  here  directly,  you'll  see. 

Hedvig  (after  a  short  silence).  Do  you  think  it's  a 
good  thing  that  Werje  has  come  to  live  with  us? 

Gina.     Why  shouldn't  it  be  a  good  thing  ? 

Hedvig.  Well,  I  don't  know;  but  we  were  so  com- 
fortable by  ourselves.  And  I  think  Relling  suits  father 
much  better  than  Werle. — Oh,  what  can  have  become 
of  him! 

Gina  (calls  out).    There  he  is! 

(Hialmar  Ekdal  comes  in  from  the  right.) 


234  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Hedvio  (going  to  him).  Father!  So  you've  come  at 
last! 

Gina.  We've  been  waiting  such  a  long  time  for  you, 
Ekdal! 

Hialmae.     I  was  out  rather  long,  yes. 

Gina.     Perhaps  you've  had  dinner  with  Werle? 

Hialmar.     No. 

Gina.     Then  I'll  bring  some  in  for  you. 

Hialmar.     No,  let  it  alone;   I  want  nothing  to  eat. 

Hedvig.     Are  you  not  well,  father? 

Hialmar.  Oh  yes,  well  enough.  We  have  had  a 
very  long  walk 

Gina.  You  didn't  ought  to  have  gone  so  far,  Ekdal; 
you're  not  used  to  it. 

Hialmar.  One  can  get  used  to  a  good  many  things. 
Have  any  orders  come  in  to-day? 

Gina.     No,  not  to-day. 

Hedvig.  There  will  be  some  to-morrow,  father,  you'll 
see. 

Hialmar.  I  should  be  glad  of  it;  for  to-morrow  I  am 
going  to  set  to  work  properly;  I  mean  to  do  everything 
myself;  I  shall  take  it  into  my  own  hands. 

Gina.  But  why  do  you  want  to  do  that,  Ekdal  ? 
What  is  the  use  of  making  your  life  a  burden  to  you  ? 

Hialmar.  That  is  my  business.  And  then  I  should 
like  to  keep  proper  accounts  too. 

Gina.     You  ? 

Hialmar.     Yes,  don't  you  keep  accounts  ? 

Hedvig.     But  mother  keeps  the  accounts  so  well. 

Hialmar.  And  she  seems  to  make  the  money  go  a 
very  long  way,  too.  It's  remarkable  that  we  can  live 
so  well  on  the  little  money  I  have  made  this  winter. 

Hedvig.  Yes,  but  remember  all  the  copying  for  Gra- 
berg,  father. 


THE   WILD   DUCK  235 

Hialmar.     Copying,  yes! 

Gina.     Nonsense,  that  doesn't  come  to  much — 

Hedvig.  Yes,  indeed  it  does;  it's  mostly  that  we  live 
on. 

Gina.     How  can  you  say  such  a  thing  ? 

Hedvig.     Dear  me,  why  mayn't  father  know  that? 

Hialmar.  So  that  is  what  we  are  living  on.  Copy- 
ing for  Mr.  Werle. 

Gina.  You  know  very  well  that  it's  Graberg  who 
pays  for  it. 

Hialmar.     Out  of  his  own  pocket? 

Gina.     Yes,  I  suppose  so. 

Hedvig.     But  it's  all  the  same  to  us,  father. 

Hialmar.  Of  course;  it's  all  the  same  to  us  where 
the  money  comes  from. 

Gina.  That's  what  I  think  too.  But  as  we're  talking 
about  it — !  You  haven't  been  doing  anything  all  day, 
Hedvig- 


Hedvig.     Then  I  had  better  go  in  and 

Gina.     Yes,  do.     (Hedvig  goes  into  the  sitting-room.) 

Gina.     What  has  happened  to  you,  Ekdal  ? 

Hialmar.     Do  you  think  Gregers  is  in  his  senses  ? 

Gina.  How  should  I  know?  I  don't  know  much 
about  him. 

Hialmar.     If  I  only  knew  that. 

Gina.     Well,  you  heard  what  Relling  said  about  him. 

Hialmar.  Oh,  Relling,  Relling — .  Light  the  lamp 
for  me,  please. 

Gina  (lighting  the  lamp).  Gregers  Werle  has  been 
— odd — all  his  life. 

Hialmar.     It  seems  to  me  your  voice  is  trembling. 

Gina.     Is  it? 

Hialmar.     And  your  hands  are  shaking,  are  they  not  ? 

Gina.     Yes.     I  don't  know  what  makes  them. 


236  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

HialmaEo  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  Gregers  said  about 
you. 

Gina  (uneasy,  holding  her  hands  to  her  ears).  No,  no; 
I  won't  hear  it! 

Hialmar  (pulling  her  hands  away) .    You  shall  hear  it* 

Gina.     There's  no  need  for  you  to  say  it. 

Hialmar.     Then  you  know  what  it  is? 

Gina.     I  can  guess. 

Hialmar.  So  it  is  true.  True,  true!  Oh,  this  is 
awful! 

Gina.  I  see  very  well  that  I  ought  to  have  told  you 
long  ago. 

Hialmar.  You  should  have  told  me  at  the  very  first; 
— while  there  was  yet  time. 

Gina.     What  would  you  nave  done  then  ? 

Hialmar.  Then  of  course  I  should  have  had  nothing 
to  say  to  you. 

Gina.  Yes,  that's  what  I  thought;  and  that's  why  I 
didn't  say  anything. 

Hialmar.  Unsuspecting  fool  that  I  was  to  imagine 
that  you  had  a  great  love  for  me! 

Gina.  That  has  come  with  years,  Ekdal ;  as  true  as  I 
stand  here.  Oh  yes,  I'm  fond  of  you,  indeed  I  am,  more 
than  any  one  else  can  be. 

Hialmar.  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  that. 
What  are  you  now  in  my  eyes;  you  who  could  yield  to  a 
middle-aged  married  man  ? 

Gina.     Yes,  I  can't  think  now  how  I  could  do  it. 

Hialmar.  Can't  you  ?  Perhaps  you  have  become 
moral  with  years.  But  then — how  in  the  world  could 
you  enter  into  such  a  thing? 

Gina.  Oh,  you  must  know,  Ekdal,  it  isn't  so  easy 
for  poor  girls.  The  rich  men  begin  by  degrees  with 
presents  and  so  on — 


THE   WILD   DUCK  237 

Hialmar.  Yes,  ready  money,  you're  very  fond  of 
that. 

Gina.  It  was  mostly  jewellery  and  clothes  and  that 
sort  of  thing. 

Hialmar.  And  of  course  you  have  sent  it  all  back  to 
him  long  ago. 

Gina.  I've  worn  out  the  clothes,  and  I  sold  the  gold 
things  one  by  one  when  we  were  wanting  money 

Hialmar.  We've  been  living  on  that  man's  money. 
Everything  we  have  in  the  house  comes  from  him! 

Gina.  Ever  since  we  were  married  I  haven't  seen  a 
penny  of  his;   and  I  don't  believe  I've  seen  him  once. 

Hialmar.     But  the  copying! 

Gina.  Bertha  got  me  that,  when  she  went  to  keep 
house  for  him. 

Hialmar.  Yes,  you  and  Bertha,  you're  both  of  the 
same  sort. 

Gina.  Tell  me,  Ekdal — haven't  I  been  a  good  wife  to 
you? 

Hialmar.  And  what  haven't  you  to  thank  me  for! 
Haven't  I  raised  you  from  an  inferior  position  ?  Haven't 
I  given  you  a  name  to  bear? — yes,  a  name — for  it  shall 
come  to  be  respected  and  honoured  again. 

Gina.     That  don't  make  any  difference  to  me. 

Hialmar.    Doesn't  it?    Oh  well,  I  can  quite  believe  it. 

Gina.  Yes,  because  I  love  you  as  you  are,  Ekdal; 
even  if  you  never  do  the  great  things  you're  so  fond  of 
talking  about. 

Hialmar.  That's  your  lower  nature  showing  itself. 
I  am  misunderstood  in  my  own  home;  I  have  always 
been  misunderstood  by  you. 

Gina.  But  I've  been  a  good  wife  to  you,  all  the  same. 
(Gregers  Werle  comes  in  from  the  passage  door.) 

Gregers  (in  the  doonvay).     May  I  come  in? 


238  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hialmar.     Yes,  come  in. 

Gregers.     Have  you  not  done  it  yet? 

Hialmar.     It  is  done. 

Gregers.     It  is  ? 

Hialmar.  I  have  passed  through  the  bitterest  mo<- 
ments  of  my  life. 

Gregers.     But  also,  I  trust,  the  most  ennobling. 

Hialmar.  Well,  at  any  rate,  we  have  got  through  it 
for  the  present. 

Gin  a.     God  forgive  you,  Mr.  Werle. 

Gregers.     But  I  don't  understand  this. 

Hialmar.     What  don't  you  understand  ? 

Gregers.  A  crisis  so  great  as  this — so  exhaustive — 
a  crisis  that  is  to  be  the  starting-point  of  an  entirely  new 
life — a  life  founded  on  truth- 

Hialmar.     Yes,  yes,  I  know,  I  know. 

Gregers.  I  was  so  confident  that  when  I  came  in 
after  this,  I  should  find  the  light  of  a  higher  transfigura- 
tion shining  over  your  home;  and  now  I  am  met  by  this 
dulness,  oppression,  gloom 

Gina.     Oh,  is  that  it?  (Turns  up  the  lamp.) 

Gregers.  Or  tell  me  frankly,  Mrs.  Ekdal,  is  it  not  a 
joy  to  you  to  be  rid  of  this  burden  of  concealment? 

Gina.  I  must  tell  you,  Mr.  Werle,  that  I've  had  so 
little  time  to  remember  all  these  old  stories. 

Gregers.  I  should  have  thought  that  they  were  never 
out  of  your  thoughts  for  a  day,  for  an  hour. 

Gina.  I'm  sure  I've  had  all  I  could  do  to  look  after 
the  house.  And  since  I've  been  married  no  one  can  say 
anything  but  that  I've  been  upright  and  respectable. 

Gregers.  Your  whole  view  of  life  is  incomprehen- 
sible to  me — so  widely,  so  immensely  different  from  my 
own.  But  you,  Hialmar — surely  you  feel  a  new  consp- 
iration after  such  a  moment? 


THE  WILD   DUCK  239 

Hialmar.  Yes,  of  course  I  do.  That  is — in  a  sort 
of  way 

Gregers.  The  joy  of  forgiving  one  who  has  erred,  of 
raising  one  who  has  strayed  up  to  yourself  in  love 

Hialmar.  Do  you  think  a  man  can  so  easily  throw  off 
the  effects  of  an  hour  such  as  I  have  passed  ? 

Gregers.  No,  not  a  common  man — perhaps;  but  a 
man  like  you ! 

Hialmar.  Good  God!  I  know  that  well  enough. 
But  it  takes  time,  you  know. 

Gregers.  You  have  been  too  long  at  the  bottom  of 
the  sea,  Hialmar;  you  have  bitten  yourself  fast  there; 
and  so  it  always  hurts  at  first  when  one  comes  up  into 
the  clear  daylight. 

Hialmar.     You  are  right  there;   it  hurts. 

Gregers.  Yes,  for  there  is  too  much  of  the  wild 
duck  in  you.  (Relling  comes  in  from  the  passage.) 

Relling.     Oho!   is  the  wild  duck  on  the  tapis  again  ? 

Gregers.  Yes,  for  it  is  the  evil  spirit  of  the  house. 
Ah,  it  is  not  without  significance  that  it  came  from  Mr. 
Werle. 

Relling.     So  it's  Mr.  Werle  you  are  talking  about? 

Hialmar.     Him  and — certain  others. 

Relling  (turning  to  Gregers).  May  the  devil  fly 
away  with  you. 

Hialmar.     Then  perhaps  you  know  it  too! 

Relling.  Oh,  never  mind  what  I  know  or  don't 
know.  From  that  quarter  one  can  expect  all  kinds  of 
things. 

Gregers.  Yes,  but  I  who  know,  am  I  not  to  speak! 
Am  I  to  look  on  while  two  dear,  good  creatures  come  to 
grief  because  they  are  living  their  life  on  a  false  founda- 
tion? 


240  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Relling.  But  it's  no  business  of  yours.  You  must 
leave  off  playing  the  quacksalver  with  my  patients. 

Hialmar.     Patients  ? 

Relling.  Oh  yes,  there's  always  somebody  who's  in 
need  of  a  doctor.  But  you  don't  understand  that,  Mr. 
Werle. 

Gregers.  I  know  from  experience  what  it  is  to  have 
a  gnawing  conscience,  such  as  has  poisoned  my  life;  but 
here  I  found  my  life's  mission.  Now  I  am  so  happy. 
And  should  I  not  then  open  the  eyes  of  two  people,  who 
have  such  a  profound  need  of  seeing? 

Relling.     What  is  it  that  they  are  to  see  ? 

Gregers.  The  truth.  The  recognition  that  their 
association  has  not  until  to-day  been  a  true  marriage. 

Relling.     Do  you  think  it  will  be  truer  hereafter? 

Gregers.     Yes,  I  have  a  cheerful  hope  of  that. 

Relling.  Of  course;  people  like  you  are  always  un- 
commonly hopeful.  Time  after  time  you're  taken  in, 
made  fools  of — hasn't  that  happened  to  you  ? 

Gregers.  Certainly;  I  have  suffered  many  disap- 
pointments. 

Relling.     And  yet  you  have  a  cheerful  hope. 

Gregers.  But  here  is  something  different,  something 
out  of  the  common.  An  individuality  like  Hialmar 
Ekdal's 


Relling.     Ekdal — — ! 

Hialmar.     Yes,  that  may  be  true  enough,  but 

Relling.  Very  well,  Ekdal,  then.  But  you  see,  bis 
mission  lies  elsewhere;  he  doesn't  need  any  better  mar- 
riage than  that  he  has  lived  in  hitherto. 

Gina.  Yes,  don't  you  think  so,  Relling!  We  were 
getting  on  so  well 

Hialmar.  You  don't  understand  the  claims  of  the 
Ideal. 


THE   WILD   DUCK  241 

Relling.  No,  you  see,  Hialmar  Ekdal  will  come  out 
all  right;  he  can't  come  to  grief  altogether.  He  has  his 
great  problem  to  wrestle  with 

Hialmar.     Yes,  my  problem — I  have  that,  of  course. 

Relling.  And  when  that  is  solved,  he  will  once  more 
have  cast  honour  and  glory  upon  the  name  of  Ekdal. 

Hialmar.     I  hope  so,  in  any  case. 

Gregers.  Well,  the  problem  is  all  very  well;  but  it  is 
something  that  lies  outside  the  individuality,  something 
purely  scientific,  or  technical,  or  whatever  you  like  to 
call  it.  And  it  is  impossible  for  such  a  thing  to  satisfy 
an  individuality  such  as  Hialmar's.  Or  do  you  think 
it  satisfies  you  ? 

Hialmar.     No,  not  entirely,  I  think 

Gregers.  There,  you  see,  Doctor  Relling.  And  if 
it  does  not  satisfy  his  individuality  now,  when  that  in- 
dividuality has  not  developed  into  perfect  freedom — ; 
well,  let  me  put  a  question  to  you;  do  you  think  any 
great  problem  can  be  solved  by  an  imperfect  individu- 
ality ? 

Relling.  Do  you  mean  that  photography  cannot  be 
raised  to  an  art  so  long  as  the  photographer's  relation 
to  his  wife  is  not  a  true  marriage? 

Gregers.  You  put  it  rather  bluntly;  but  I  have  such 
an  unfailing  belief  in  the  powers  of  development  of  true 
marriage 

Relling.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Werle,  have  you  seen  many 
true  marriages? 

Gregers.     No,  scarcely  a  single  one. 

Relling.     Nor  I  either. 

Gregers.  But  I  have  seen  marriages  of  the  oppo- 
site kind;  and  what  ruin  they  can  work  in  a  human 
soul 


2i2  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Relling.  And  from  them  you  draw  your  conclusions. 
Well,  well,  Ekdal,  now  you  know  what  is  wanted  for  your 
great  discovery. 

Gina.  But  you  shouldn't  talk  so  much  about  that 
invention,  Relling,  for  it  won't  come  to  anything  after  all. 

Hialmab.     Won't  come  to  anything! 

Relling.     Well,  that's  a  fine  thing  to  say! 

Hialmar.  My  problem  won't  come  to  anything,  do 
you  say! 

Gina.  No,  I'm  pretty  sure  it  won't.  You've  been 
waiting  all  this  time  to  find  out  something;  and  you're 
just  where  you  were ■ 

Relling.  Such  things  often  come  about  by  a  sort  of 
revelation,  Mrs.  Ekdal. 

Hl^lmar.     But  she  doe§n't  understand  that. 

Gina.  Well,  revelations  are  all  very  fine,  but  you 
want  something  else  besides.  I  should  think  it  would 
be  better  if  you  worked  with  the  instruments  you've 
[we've]  got,  Ekdal;  and  then  other  people  can  find  out 
these  new  ones. 

Hialmar.  Not  understood;  not  understood  in  one's 
own  home.  (Sees  Hedvig.)  Yes,  she  understands  me. 
Or  do  you  not  believe  in  me  either,  Hedvig? 

Hedvig.     What  am  I  to  believe  in,  father  ? 

Hialmar.  You  are  of  course  to  believe  in  me  in  a 
general  way,  to  believe  in  my  mission,  and  to  believe  in 
the  problem. 

Hedvig.     Yes,  I  believe  you  will  one  day  find  it  out. 

Hialmar.     H'm 

Gina.     Hush,  there's  a  knock. 

(Goes  toward  the  passage  door.) 
(Mrs.  Sorby  comes  in.) 

Gina.     Is  it  you,  Bertha  ? 

Mrs.  Sorby.     Yes,  of  course  it  is. 


THE   WILD   DUCK  243 

Hialmar.  If  you  have  anything  to  say  to  Gina, 
won't  you  go  in —  (Indicating  the  sitting-room.) 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Thanks,  I'd  rather  stay  here.  I  have 
a  message  from  Mr.  Werle. 

Hialmar.     What  does  he  want  with  us! 

Gregers.     Perhaps  it  is  something  about  me. 

Mrs.  Sorby.  At  any  rate  he  wishes  you  to  know  it. 
To  begin  with,  a  somewhat  important  change  is  im- 
pending in  Mr.  Werle's  domestic  and  other  relations. 

Gregers.     Aha! 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Mr.  Werle  has  decided  to  make  over  the 
business  here  to  Graberg,  and  will  himself  move  up  to 
the  works. 

Gregers.     He  will! 

Hialmar.  Really,  will  Mr.  Werle  move  up  to  the 
works  ? 

Relling.  He  won't  stand  that  for  long;  it  will  be 
much  too  lonely. 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Well,  he  won't  be  altogether  alone 
either. 

Gregers.     Ah,  then  it's  coming  off  after  all  ? 

Mrs.  Sorby.     Yes. 

Relling.     What's  coming  off  ? 

Hialmar.     I  don't  understand  a  word. 

Gregers.  I  must  explain  the  situation.  My  father 
*nd  Mrs.  Sorby  are  going  to  be  married. 

Hialmar.     Going  to  be  married! 

Gina.     Oh!   so  it's  come  to  that  at  last! 

Relling.     This  is  surely  not  true? 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Yes,  it  is  true;  he  has  got  a  special 
license  and  goes  up  there  this  evening.  And  I  think  of 
going  to-morrow  morning.  Well,  now  I  have  told  you; 
bo  it  is  over. 

Relling.     So  that  was  the  end  of  it. 


244  FROM   IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Gregers.  What  do  you  think  this  will  lead  to,  Mrs. 
Sorby  ? 

Mrs.  Sorby.  To  good,  I  think.  Mr.  Werle  is  not 
nearly  so  difficult  to  get  on  with  as  some  people  think. 

Gregers.  No  doubt  you  have  no  cause  to  com- 
plain. 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Oh  no;  he  may  be  unreasonable  now 
and  then;  but  I  have  been  through  worse  things,  Mr. 
Werle.     And  of  course  one  is  glad  to  be  provided  for. 

Relling.  And  Mr.  Werle  is  the  man  to  provide  for 
you.     He's  no  beggar. 

Mrs.  Sorby.  There  are  many  who  need  not  be  beg- 
gars, if  only  they  had  put  their  whole  hearts  into  some- 
thing. 

Relling.  Put  their  whole  hearts — tell  me,  how  much 
would  that  help? 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Ah,  a  man  can  be  so  far  gone  that  he 
no  longer  has  a  heart  for  anything. 

Relling.     I  shall  go  out  with  Molvik  this  evening. 

Mrs.  Sorby.     You  mustn't  do  that,  Relling. 

Relling.     There's  nothing  else  for  it. 

(Goes  out  through  the  passage  door.) 

Mrs.  Sorby.  And  then  there's  another  thing.  No 
doubt  some  people  think  Mr.  Werle  ought  to  have  done 
a  little  more  for  an  old  friend  like  Lieutenant  Ekdal. 

Hialmar.  Mr.  Werle  does  a  very  great  deal  for  father: 
he  pays  so  liberally 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Yes,  for  the  copying;  but  now  your 
father's  getting  old;  his  eyesight  will  not  be  equal  to  the 
work  much  longer;  so  here  is  an  order  to  pay  once  for 
all.  You  or  Gina  can  draw  every  month  a  hundred 
crowns  for  your  father 

Hialmar.     Gina  ? 


THE   WILD   DUCK  245 

Mrs.  Sorby.  Yes,  or  you;  just  as  you  like.  And 
when  your  father — well,  when  he  no  longer  requires 
anything,  it  passes  on  to  Hedvig. 

Hialmar  (draws  back,  as  though  stabbed).  To  Hed- 
vig! 

Hedvig.    Fancy!    All  that  money! 

Hialmar.     Hedvig!     What  do  you  say  to  that,  Gina! 

Gina.     Mr.  Werle  must  have  thought  that 

Mrs.  Sorby.     It  seemed  to  him  the  most  honourable 

way ;  you  see,  Hedvig  is  a  child;  she  can  quite  well 

accept  it. 

Hialmar.  Yes,  she  has  most  claim  to  it,  unless  Gina 
herself 

Mrs.  Sorby.     Gina  herself! 


Hialmar.     But  I,  I,  I,  you  see! 

Hedvig.  I  won't  take  anything.  You  shall  have  it 
all,  father. 

Mrs.  Sorby.     What  has  happened  here? 

Hialmar.  Something  that  ought  to  have  happened 
long,  long  ago. 

Mrs.  Sorby.     Already. 

Gregers.  I  understand  very  well  why  father  has  ar- 
ranged this.  He  wanted  to  convince  me  that  Hialmar 
Ekdal  was  not  the  man  I  took  him  for. 

Hialmar.  He  will  be  out  in  his  calculations,  then. 
Look  here,  Gregers.  (Tears  tJie  paper  across.)  There, 
Mrs.  Sorby,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  give  this  back  to 
Mr.  Werle. 

Mrs.  Sorby.     I  won't  take  it. 

Hialmar  (throws  it  on  the  table) .  Then  let  it  be.  But 
tell  him  at  all  events  that  I  have  torn  his  deed  of  gift  in 
pieces. 

Gregers.  And  then  ask  your  future  husband  who 
was  rights  he  or  I. 


846  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Sorbt.  I  will.  Good-bye,  Gina;  good  luck  to 
you. 

Gina.     You  too,  Bertha.     Good-bye. 
(Mrs.  Sorbt  goes.) 

Hialmar  (in  a  whisper).  Now  you're  to  answer  me, 
as  though  you  were  on  your  oath:  does  Hedvig  belong 
to  me  or  not? 

Gina.     I  don't  know. 

Hialmar.     You  don't  know! 

Gina.     How  should  I  know — ;  a  creature  like  me. 

Hialmar.  And  you  brazen  it  out,  too. — Gregers,  to- 
morrow I  leave  this  house. 

Hedvig  (with  a  scream).     Father!     Oh,  no,  no! 

Gina.     You'll  never  do  that,  Ekdal! 

Gregers.     Must  it  be  so>  Hialmar? 

Hialmar.  It  must.  I'm  going  at  once.  (Puts  on  his 
overcoat.)     I  shan't  be  home  to-night 

Hedvig  (throws  herself  down  on  the  sofa).  He  is  go- 
ing away  from  us!  Father,  father  is  going  away  from  us! 
Oh,  mother,  mother! 

Gina.  You  mustn't  cry,  Hedvig;  he's  sure  to  come 
back  again. 

Hedvig.  No,  he'll  never  come  back  again!  Didn't 
he  say  so? 

Gina.     Don't  you  think  he'll  come  back,  Mr.  Werle  ? 

Gregers.  I  feel  sure  of  it.  Hialmar  will  come  back 
to  his  home;  and  you  will  see  how  exalted  he  will  return. 

Hedvig.  But  what  have  we  done  to  him  ?  Mother, 
tell  me  what  it  is  ?  Why  doesn't  he  want  me  any  more  ? 
Tell  me  that!     Oh,  tell  me  that! 

Gina.     Hush,  hush,  you'll  know  when  you're  older. 

Hedvig.  Yes,  but  I'll  never  be  older  if  father  doesn't 
want  me.  (Bursts  into  sobs  and  tears.) 


THE   WILD   DUCK  247 

Gina.  You  musn't  cry,  Hedvig;  you  mustn't  indeed. 
It  does  you  harm;   Doctor  Relling  said  so. 

Hedvig.  I  can't  help  it.  Oh,  mother,  mother,  fetch 
him  home  again 

Gina.  Yes,  I'll  go  and  look  for  him.  Perhaps  he's 
only  gone  down  to  Relling's.  (Puts  on  her  sliawl.)  But 
you  must  be  quiet,  Hedvig;   promise  me! 

Hedvig.     Yes,  yes. 

Gregers.  Had  you  not  better  leave  him  to  fight  out 
his  bitter  fight  to  the  end  ? 

Gina.  Oh,  he  can  do  that  afterwards.  First  of  all, 
we  must  get  the  child  quieted. 

{She  goes  out  by  the  passage  door.) 

Gregers.  There  now;  cheer  up,  Hedvig.  All  may 
yet  be  well. 

Hedvig.  Why  doesn't  father  want  me  any  more,  Mr. 
Werle  ?     You  must  tell  me  that. 

Gregers.  I  can  only  say  as  your  mother  says:  some 
day  you  will  know. 

Hedvig.  But  I  can't  go  on  waiting  and  being  as  mis- 
erable as  this. 

Gregers.  What  right  have  you  or  any  human  being 
to  be  happy?     What  right,  I  ask. 

Hedvig.  Oh,  I  don't  care  about  that;  it  is  so  lovely 
to  be  happy  and  cheerful. 

Gregers.  There  is  something  in  life  that  is  higher 
than  that,  Hedvig. 

Hedvig.  Yes,  but  that  doesn't  matter  if  only  every- 
thing is  right  again  at  home,  between  father  and  mother 
and  me.  Don't  you  think  everything  can  come  right 
between  us? 

Gregers.  I  have  a  sure  hope  that  some  day  every- 
thing will  be  right  again  between  your  father  and 
mother. 


248  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedvig.     Yes,  but  me! 

Gregers.     You  must  remember  one  thing,  Hedvig 
you  are  not  destined  to  spend  your  whole  life  here  at 
home. 

Hedvig.  Oh  yes,  oh  yes !  I  will  always  stay  at  home. 
I  will  never,  never  leave  father  and  mother. — And  then 
— just  think — then  father  doesn't  want  me  any  more! 

Gregers.  You  must  wait  and  hope;  your  father 
has  first  to  fight  out  his  battle. 

Hedvig.  But  I  can't  wait  and  be  as  miserable  as  this. 
Why  doesn't  father  want  me  any  more  ?  Am  I  not  really 
father's  and  mother's  child?  Perhaps  they  only  found 
me? 

Gregers.  Found  you  ?  Well,  it  might  be  that  your 
father  believes  something  like  that. 

Hedvig.  Yes,  but  then  mother  can  tell  him  that  it 
isn't  true. 

Gregers.     And  supposing  he  doesn't  believe  her. 

Hedvig.  Well,  but  even  if  it  was  true,  father  might 
be  just  as  fond  of  me  for  all  that.  We  don't  know  where 
the  wild  duck  came  from  either,  and  yet  we  love  it  so 
intensely. 

Gregers.  The  wild  duck.  Yes,  you  love  that  wild 
duck  so  intensely,  Hedvig. 

Hedvig.     Yes,  so  intensely. 

Gregers.  And  the  wild  duck  is  your  property,  isn't 
she? 

Hedvig.     Yes,  she  belongs  to  me.     But  why ? 

Gregers.  Have  you  anything  else  that  you  love  so 
well? 

Hedvig.     Oh  no;  nothing  in  the  world. 

Gregers.  Then  you  must  sacrifice  the  dearest  treas- 
ure you  have 

Hedvig.     The  wild  duck! 


THE   WILD   DUCK  249 

Gregers.  Yes,  and  get  back  your  father's  love  in- 
stead. 

Hedvig.     But  how  can  you  think 

Gregers.  He  said  so  himself  before  he  went;  neither 
you  nor  the  old  man  cared  to  make  such  a  sacrifice  for 
his  sake;  it  is  your  love  for  him  that  he  doubts;  that  is 
why  he  doesn't  want  you  any  more. 

Hedvig.     Oh,  if  it  was  only  that > 

Gregers.  Show  him  that  to  win  him  back  means 
more  to  you  than  anything  in  the  world.  Give  up  your 
dearest  treasure,  and  give  it  gladly. 

Hedvtg.  Ah,  if  that  could  only  make  everything 
come  right  again 

Gregers.  You  must  not  doubt  the  power  of  self-sac- 
rifice; that  is  just  what  is  ideal  in  family  life,  you  see ■ 

Hedvtg.  Oh,  but  I  don't  care  about  anything  of 
that  sort;   I  don't  understand  it. 

Gregers.  But  don't  you  see  that  this  would  be  a 
deed  that  bore  the  stamp  of  the  uncommon;  and  for 
that  very  reason  your  father  would  recognise  the  kinship 
between  you  and  him. 

Hedvig.     Do  you  think  so  ? 

Gregers.  Yes,  I'm  sure  of  it.  And  your  father 
would  say:  Hedvig  is  my  child  in  spirit  and  in  truth, 
even  if  she  came  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

Hedvig.     Or  from  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

Gregers.  Yes,  yes,  from  the  depths  of  the  sea,  if 
you  like. 

Hedvig.  And  then  everything  might  come  right  again 
between  me  and  father?     Oh,  that  would  be  splendid. 

Gregers.  Everything  is  splendid  when  one's  course 
of  life  is  raised  to  a  higher  plane.  So  the  dearest  you 
have   must  be  sacrificed,   Hedvig.     Take  your  grand- 


250  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

father  into  the  secret;  get  him  to  do  it;  look  out  for  a 
time  when  he  wants  to  go  shooting — you  know 

Hedvig.     Yes,  yes,  I  know 

Gregers.     But  don't  tell  your  mother  about  it 

Hedvig.     Why  not  mother? 

Gregers.  Because  she  would  scarcely  understand  us. 
(Gina  comes  in  from  the  passage.) 

Hedvig.     Mother!     Did  you  find  him  ? 

Gina.  No.  I  only  heard  as  he  had  called  and  taken 
Relling  with  him. 

Gregers.     Are  you  sure  of  that? 

Gina.  Yes,  the  woman  in  the  yard  said  so.  Molvik 
went  with  them  too. 

Gregers.  This  evening,  when  his  mind  so  sorely 
needs  to  wrestle  in  solitude. 

Gina.  Yes,  that's  what  I  thought.  The  Lord  only 
knows  where  they  have  gone  to.  They  weren't  at 
Madam  Eriksen's. 

Hedvig  (bursting  into  tears).  Oh,  if  he  never  comes 
home  any  more! 

Gregers.  He  will  come  home  again.  And  then  you 
shall  see  how  he  comes  home! — Good  evening.  And 
sleep  in  peace.  (He  goes  out  by  the  passage  door.) 

Hedvig  (throws  Jierself  weeping  on  Gina's  neck). 
Mother,  mother! 

Gina.  Ah  yes,  that's  what  comes  of  it  when  you  have 
crazy  creatures  in  the  house. 


THE  WILD   DUCK  251 


FROM  THE   FIFTH  ACT 

Gregers.  What  is  your  explanation  of  the  mental 
agitation  that  is  going  on  in  Ekdal  ? 

Relling.  Devil  a  bit  of  mental  agitation  do  I  think 
there  is  in  him. 

Gregers.  But  can  you  think  that  an  individuality 
like  his ! 

Relling.  Oh,  individuality,  individuality!  I  don't 
know  what  individuality  is.  Hialmar  Ekdal  is  a  good- 
kind,  well-behaved  creature,  whose  chief  wish  is  to  live 
as  comfortably  and  as  free  from  care  as  he  can  manage. 

Gregers.  He — who  has  to  restore  his  name  and  the 
honour  of  his  family. 

Relling.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  all  about  that;  he  was 
drivelling  about  that  last  night.  But  how  the  devil 
should  he  be  able  to  retrieve  the  past  ?  Can  you  tell  me 
that? 

Gregers.  Have  you  forgotten  the  remarkable  inven- 
tion he  is  working  at? 

Relling.  So  you  believe  in  that  invention  in  sober 
earnest  ? 

Gregers.  Yes,  certainly.  And  you  believe  in  h 
yourself,  too. 

Relling.  No,  look  here,  Mr.  Werle — I  may  be 
something  of  a  beast,  but  a  fool  I  am  not. 

Gregers.  Well,  anyhow  you  spoke  highly  enough 
of  his  endeavours  yesterday. 

Relling.  Deuce  take  it,  can't  you  see  why  ?  All  this 
about  the  remarkable  invention  is  just  the  life-illusion 
that  keeps  him  going. 

Gregers.     Life-illusion  ? 


252  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Relling.  Yes,  of  course.  Most  people  occupy  them- 
selves with  an  illusion  that  helps  them  to  live  their  lives, 

Gregers.  That  would  be  a  distressing  state  of 
things. 

Relling.  Who  said  it  was  a  cheerful  state  of  things  ? 
It  is  so,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  The  remarkable 
invention  is  to  Ekdal  what  the  daemonic  nature  is  to 
Molvik. 

Gregers.     Isn't  it  true  with  him  either? 

Relling.  An  idiot  like  him — daemonic  ?  How  the 
devil  can  you  believe  such  a  thing  ?  And  there's  nothing 
of  the  kind  either.  But  if  I  hadn't  given  him  that  idea, 
he  would  have  come  to  grief  in  self-contempt  long  ago. 

Gregers.  And  perhaps  it  is  you  who  gave  him  the 
idea. 

Relling.  Yes,  I'm  his  doctor,  you  see;  curing  him 
is  out  of  the  question;  but  a  little  injection  of  illusion 
now  and  then — it  acts  as  a  palliative. 

Gregers.  That  may  be;  but  it  is  not  so  with  Hial- 
mar  Ekdal. 

Relling.  Isn't  it?  Rob  Hialmar  Ekdal  of  his  il- 
lusion, and  you  rob  him  of  his  happiness  at  the  same 
stroke. 

Gregers.  Ah,  his  illusion,  I  dare  say.  But  what 
about  his  striving  after  the  ideal  ? 

Relling.  Good  Lord,  man!  they  are  only  two  (lif- 
erent names  for  the  same  thing.  (To  Hedvig,  who 
comes  in.)  Well,  Hedvig,  I'm  just  going  down  to  look 
after  your  father.  (He  goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Gregers.  Have  you  enough  courage  and  strength  of 
will  to-day  ? 

Hedvig.  Well,  I  don't  know;  I  don't  seem  quite  able 
to  believe  in  such  a  thing. 


THE   WILD   DUCK  253 

Gregers.     Then  let  it  be;    without  true  resolution 

there  is  nothing  in  it.  (Goes  out  to  the  right.) 

(Hedvig  is  on  the  point  of  going  into  the  kitchen 

when  a  knock  is  heard  at  the  door  to  the  garret; 

she  goes  over  and  opens  it;   old  Ekdal  comes  out; 

she  shuts  the  door  again.) 

Ekdal.     It's  no  good  being  in  there  alone.     What's 

become  of  Hialmar? 

Hedvig.     Wouldn't  you  like  to  shoot  the  wild  duck, 
grandfather  ? 

Ekdal.     Hush,  hush,  don't  talk  like  that.     It's  only 
something  that  comes  over  me.     Old  sportsman,  you  see. 
Hedvig.     Oughtn't  they  to  be  shot  in  the  breast? 
Ekdal.     Under  the  wing,  when  you  can  manage  it. 
And  it's  best  a  little  from  behind. 

Hedvig.     Do  you  often  want  to  shoot  her  ? 
Ekdal.     Needn't  be  afraid.     I  can  make  a  rabbit  do. 

(Goes  into  his  room.) 
(Gina   comes  from   the  sitting-room  and  begins  to 
clean  up  the  studio.     Presently  the  passage  door  is 
opened  slowly;  Hialmar  is  seen;  he  is  without  hat 
or  overcoat,  unwashed  and  with  unkempt  hair.) 
Gina.     There  now,  you've  come  at  last! 
Hialmar  (comes  in).     I'm  going  again  at  once  [this 
Instant]. 

Gina.     Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  so. 
Hedvig  (from  the  kitchen).     Oh,  father! 
Hialmar  (turns  away  and  makes  a  gesture  of  repulsion) . 
Away,  away,  away! 

Gina.     Go  into  the  sitting-room,  Hedvig. 

(Hedvig  does  so.) 
Hialmar.     I  must  have  my  books  with  me.     Where 
are  my  books? 

Gina.    What  books? 


254  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hialmar.  My  scientific  books,  of  course;  the  tech- 
nical magazines  I  require  for  my  invention. 

Gina  (searches  in  the  bookcase).  Is  it  these  here  that 
isn't  bound? 

Hialmar.     Yes,  of  course. 

Gina  (lays  them  on  tJie  table) .  Shan't  I  get  Hedvig  to 
cut  them  for  you  ? 

Hialmar.     There  is  no  need. 

Gina.     Then  you  still  stick  to  it  that  you'll  leave  us  ? 

Hialmar.  Yes,  that  is  a  matter  of  course,  I  should 
think. 

Gina.     But  what  about  grandfather? 

Hialmar.  He'll  come  with  me.  I  am  going  out  into 
the  town  to  make  arrangements — .  H'm —  Has  any 
one  found  my  hat  on  the  stairs? 

Gina.     No.     Have  you  lost  your  hat  ? 

Hialmar.  Of  course  I  had  it  on  when  I  came  in;  I'm 
quite  certain  of  that;   but  I  couldn't  find  it  this  morning. 

Gina.     If  only  you  haven't  caught  cold,  Ekdal. 

(Goes  out  into  the  kitchen.) 
(Hialmar  rummages  among  the  papers  and  photo- 
graphs on  tlie  table,  finds  the  torn  document  of 
yesterday,  takes  it  up  and  looks  at  it;    sees  Gina 
and  puts  it  down.) 

Gina  (brings  a  tray  with  coffee  from  the  kitclien). 
Here's  a  little  something  hot,  if  you'd  fancy  it. 

Hialmar  (glances  at  it).  Coffee! — Do  you  suppose 
I'm  in  the  mood  to  drink  coffee  ? — My  manuscripts,  my 
letters  and  my  important  papers.  (Opens  the  sitting-room 
door.)  Is  she  there  too  ?  Come  out.  (Hedvig  comes.) 
In  the  last  moment  I  spend  here,  I  wish  to  be  spared  from 
interlopers.  (Goes  into  tlie  room.) 

Gina.     Stay  out  in  the  kitchen,  Hedvig. 

(Goes  into  the  sitting-room.) 


THE   WILD   DUCK  255 

Hedvig  (stands  a  moment  immovable,  biting  her  lips 
to  suppress  the  tears;  then  clenches  her  hand  and  says 
softly:)     The  wild  duck. 

(She  goes  over  to  the  garret  door,  slides  it  a  little  to 
one  side,  steals  in  and  shuts  it  after  her.) 

Hialmar  (with  some  letters  [manuscript  books],  which 
he  lays  on  the  table).  Oh,  there  are  a  thousand  and  one 
things  I  must  drag  with  me. 

Gina.  Yes,  you  won't  have  an  easy  job  getting  every- 
thing in  order.     And  now  your  coffee's  getting  cold. 

Hialmar.     H'm. 

(Drinks  a  mouthful  or  two  without  thinking  of  it.) 

Gina  (dusting).  A  nice  job  you'll  have  to  find  a  room 
for  the  rabbits. 

Hialmar.  What!  Am  I  to  have  all  those  rabbits 
with  me  ? 

Gina.  You  don't  suppose  father  can  get  on  without 
his  rabbits. 

Hialmar.  He  must  get  used  to  doing  without  them. 
The  pigeons  too  must  remain  here  for  the  present.  I 
must  try  to  dispense  with  them.  Henceforward  there 
are  many  things  I  must  dispense  with. 

(Takes  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter,  eats  it  and  drinks 
some  coffee.) 

Gina.  If  we  hadn't  let  that  room,  you  could  have 
moved  in  there. 

Hialmar.  And  remained  under  the  same  roof  with 
you  and  her — her — that 

Gina.     Hush,  don't  talk  so  loud;  father's  in  the  garret. 

Hialmar.     What,  is  he  in  the  garret  again  ? 

Gina.  But  couldn't  you  move  into  the  sitting-room 
for  a  day  or  two  ?     You  could  have  it  all  to  yourself. 

Hialmar.     Never  within  these  walls. 

Gina.     Well  then,  down  with  Relling? 


%5Q  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hialmar.  Don't  mention  that  wretch's  name  to  me. 
The  very  thought  of  him  makes  me  sick.  Oh  no,  I 
must  go  out  into  the  snow-drift  and  seek  shelter  for 
father  and  myself. 


Hialmar.  Of  course  I  shall  leave  this  house  as  soon 
as  possible.  I  am  in  the  act  of  packing  my  things.  I 
cannot  go  on  living  in  a  home  that  has  fallen  to  pieces. 

Gin  a.  Will  you  give  me  the  key  of  your  chest  of 
drawers,  Ekdal  ? 

Hialmar.     What  do  you  want  with  it? 

Gina.     I'll  put  your  shirts  into  the  portmanteau. 

Hialmar.  Here!  And  keep  it.  I  have  no  more  use 
for  it. 

(Gina  goes  into4he  sitting-room.) 

Gregers.     Do  you  really  feel  this  a  necessity  ? 

Hialmar.  Do  you  not  know  me  well  enough  to  under- 
stand that  I  cannot  live  in  a  ruined  home  ? 

Gregers.  But  this  is  just  the  moment  when  this 
home  might  be  built  up  again  on  a  foundation  tenfold 
more  secure  than  before;  upon  truth,  forgiveness,  recon- 
ciliation. 

Hialmar.     Would  you  be  able  to  approve  of  that? 

Gregers.  My  dear  fellow,  isn't  that  just  what  I  was 
aiming  at? 

Hialmar.  Yes,  but  then  there  is  the  awful,  the  des- 
perate side  of  the  situation,  that  happiness  in  any  case 
is  gone  for  ever!  Just  think  of  Hedvig,  whom  I  have 
loved  so  dearly. 

Gregers.     And  who  loves  you  so  dearly,  Hialmar. 

Hialmar.  But  that,  you  see,  is  what  I  cannot  be- 
lieve after  this.  Whatever  she  may  say,  whatever  she 
may  do,  I  shall  always  doubt  her.  For  I  can  never  know 
whether  she  is  not  acting, from  a  sense  of  insecurity,  from 


THE   WILD   DUCK  257 

fear  and  a  feeling  that  she  has  become,  as  it  were,  a 
stranger  in  the  house. 

Gregers.  Hedvig  knows  nothing  of  dissimulation. 
What  if  she  now  brought  you  her  best  possession  as  a 
sacrifice — would  you  not  then  believe  in  her? 

Hialmar.     Oh,  what  sacrifice  could  she  make  that 

Gregers.  A  small  thing,  perhaps;  but  to  her  the 
most  precious.  Let  us  just  suppose  that  for  your  sake  she 
gave  up  the  wild  duck. 

Hialmar.  The  wild  duck?  What  would  be  the  use 
of  that? 

Gregers.     To  give  up  her  most  precious  possession. 

Hialmar.  This  is  overstrained  talk.  Even  if  she 
gave  up  the  wild  duck  ten  times  over,  there  would  still 
be  a  kind  of  concealed  gulf  between  us.  Both  Hedvig 
and  I  would  feel  it  and  suffer.  No,  I  tell  you;  happi- 
ness is  past  for  us.  Never  again  can  Hedvig  and  I  be 
on  a  footing  of  father  and  child. 

{A  shot  is  Jieard  from  within  the  garret.) 

Hialmar.     What!     Is  he  shooting  again! 

Gina  (comes  in).  If  only  he  doesn't  end  by  doing 
himself  a  mischief. 

Hialmar.     I'll  look  in 

Gregers.  Wait  a  moment.  Do  you  know  what  that 
was? 

Hialmar.     How — was  ? 

Gregers.  It  was  a  useless  sacrifice  that  poor  Hedvig 
made.     She  has  got  him  to  shoot  the  wild  duck. 

Gina.     Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

Gregers.     I  know  it. 

Hialmar.     The  wild  duck. 

Gina.  Yes,  she's  been  so  tormented  and  despairing. 
Ekdal. 


258  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Gregers.  And  she  knew  no  other  way  but  to  sacri- 
fice to  you  the  best  she  had. 

Hialmar.  And  I  could  be  so  harsh  towards  her! 
Where  is  she,  Gina? 

Gina  (struggling  with  her  tears).  She's  sitting  out  in 
the  kitchen. 

Hialmar.  It  must  and  shall  come  right  again.  (Goes 
over  and  opens  the  kitchen  door.)  Hedvig,  come  in  to  me! 
— No,  she's  not  here. 

Gina.     Isn't  she?     Then  she  must  have  gone  out. 

Hialmar.  Oh,  if  she  would  only  come  quickly,  so 
that  I  can  tell  her —  For  I  really  didn't  mean  anything 
by  it. 

Gregers.     You  didn't  mean  anything  by  it? 

Gina.     It  wasn't  like  you*  either,  Ekdal. 

Hialmar.  No,  it  was  mostly  on  your  account, 
Gregers.  You  came  here  and  made  such  unreasonably 
heavy  claims  on  me 

Gregers.     Do  you  think  that! 

Hialmar.  Yes,  you  don't  know  me  properly,  you  see: 
I  am  not  altogether  as  you  imagine  me — I  want  every- 
thing to  be  pleasant  and  easy  and  comfortable 

Gina.     Ekdal  is  not  made  to  be  unhappy 

Gregers.     I'm  beginning  almost  to  believe  that. 

Hialmar.  Yes,  and  so  I  am  going  to  stay  here  with 
Gina  and  Hedvig,  just  as  before 

Gina.     That's  right. 

Gregers.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  that's  exactly  what 
I've  been  striving  for. 

Hialmar.  Yes,  but  you  wanted  it  brought  about  by 
a  lot  of  hocus  pocus,  that  I  don't  understand  at  all. 

Gregers.  Ah,  there  can't  be  any  doubt  that  it  is  I 
whose  judgment  was  at  fault. 


THE  WILD   DUCK  259 

Hialmar.  Yes,  for,  you  see,  we  are  not  that  sort, 
neither  Gina  nor  I.  But  what  has  become  of  Hedvig? 
Oh,  dear,  1  wish  she  would  come.  And  then  she  shall 
hear  that  I  care  for  her 

Gina.     Just  as  much  as  she  cares  for  you,  Ekdal. 

Hialmar.  And  just  as  much  as  she  cared  for  the  wild 
duck. 

Gregers.  The  sacrifice  has  not  been  in  vain  after 
all. 

Hialmar.     No.     After  this  Hedvig  shall  be  our  wild 

duck 

(Old  Ekdal  appears  at  the  door  of  his  room.) 

Hialmar.     Father! 

Gina.     Has  he  been  firing  in  there? 

Ekdal.     So  you  go  shooting  alone,  do  you,  Hialmar? 

Hialmar.     Wasn't  it  you  that  fired  that  shot  ? 

Ekdal.     Me  that  fired  ? 

Gregers.     Then  she  has  shot  it  herself. 

Hialmar.  What  can  it  mean?  (Runs  to  the  garret 
door,  tears  it  aside,  looks  in  and  calls  loudly:)     Hedvig! 

Gina  (going  to  the  door).     What  is  it? 

Hialmar.     She's  lying  on  the  floor! 

(Goes  into  the  garret.) 

Gregers.     Hedvig! 

Gina.     Hedvig!     No,  no,  no!     (Goes  into  the  garret,) 

Ekdal.     What  is  it  ?     Was  it  Hedvig ! 

Hialmar  (carries  Hedvig  into  the  studio).  She  has 
wounded  herself!     Call  for  help! 

Gina  (runs  into  the  passage  and  is  heard  calling:) 
Helling!     Relling!     Doctor  Relling! 

Hialmar  (lays  Hedvig  down  on  the  sofa).  She's 
coming  to — she'll  soon  come  to  now.  The  pistol  has 
gone  off. 


260  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Ekdal.     There  was  a  bullet  in  it.     She  didn't  know 
that.     Didn't  know  it  was  loaded. 

Gina  (who  has  come  back).     Where  has  she  hurt  her- 
self?    I  can't  see  anything. 

(Relling,  and  immediately  after  him  Molvik,  from 
the  passage;    the  latter  without  his  waistcoat  and 
necktie,  and  with  his  coat  open.) 
Relling.     What's  the  matter  here? 
Gina.     Hedvig  has  shot  herself. 
Hialmar.     Come  and  help  us! 
Relling.     Shot  herself! 

(Goes  over  to  the  sofa  and  examines  her.} 
Hialmar.     It   can't   be   dangerous;     she   is   scarcely 

bleeding  at  all;   it  can't  be 

Relling.     How  did  it  happen  ? 
Hialmar.     Oh,  we  don't  know ! 


Gina.     She  wanted  to  shoot  the  wild  duck 

Relling.     The  wild  duck? 

Hialmar.     The  pistol  must  have  gone  off. 

Relling.     H'm! 

Ekdal.  Shoot  the  wild  duck.  Don't  understand  a 
word  of  it.     Won't  hear  any  more. 

(Goes  into  the  garret.) 

Relling.     The  ball  has  entered  the  breast 

Hialmar.     Yes,  but  she's  alive! 

Gina.     Surely  you  see  that  Hedvig  is  dead. 

Hialmar.  No,  no,  she  must  live.  Only  a  moment. 
Only  just  till  I  can  tell  her 

Relling.  The  bullet  has  gone  through  her  heart; — 
internal  hemorrhage.  Death  must  have  been  instanta- 
neous. 

Hialmar.  Oh  Gina,  Gina,  and  I  have  done  this  to 
you! 

Gina.     Perhaps  I  had  no  right  to  keep  her  though. 


THE   WILD   DUCK  261 

Hialmar.  Had  I  then  a  right  to  take  her  from  you  ? 
From  you,  after  all  you  have  been  to  us  for  so  many 
years. 

Gina.  She  shall  be  laid  on  her  own  bed.  Take  and 
help  me,  Ekdal. 

(She  and  Hialmar  take  Hedvig  between  them.) 

Hialmar  (as  they  are  carrying  her).  Oh  Gina,  Gina, 
can  you  survive  this. 

Gina.  We  must  help  each  other  to  bear  it.  I  brought 
her  into  the  world,  and  you  took  her  out  of  the  world; — ■ 
so  now  at  least  she  belongs  to  both  of  us. 

(They  carry  her  into  the  sitting-room.) 

Molvtk  (stretches  out  his  arms  and  mumbles) .  Blessed 
be  the  Lord!  to  earth  thou  shalt  return,  to  earth  thou 
shalt  return. 

Relling  (softly).  Hold  your  tongue,  Molvik;  you're 
drunk.     Go  downstairs. 

(Hialmar  and  Gina  carry  the  body  into  the  sitting- 
room.) 

Relling  (shuts  the  door  after  them,  goes  over  to  Gre- 
gers  and  says:)  That  pistol  never  went  off  by 
accident. 

Gregers.     Are  you  quite  sure  of  that? 

Relling.  There's  no  doubt  about  it;  from  the  way 
the  powder  has  burnt  the  body  of  her  dress — .  She 
pressed  the  pistol  right  against  her  breast  and  fired. 

Gregers.     I  almost  think  that  is  how  it  happened. 

Relling.  And  can  you  say  that  you  are  free  from 
guilt  ? 

Gregers.     I  intended  it  for  the  best. 

Relling.  Yes,  you  wanted  to  bring  about  something 
you  call  a  true  marriage  here;  and  then  you  made  your 
calculations  for  only  the  husband  and  wife,  but  you  for- 
got [left  out]  the  child. 


262  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Gregers.  She  could  not  bear  the  light  of  truth;  it 
dazzled  her  eyes. 

Relling.  Truth  is  not  particularly  wholesome  for 
most  people.  Take  away  the  illusion  from  a  relation- 
ship, and  you  take  away  happiness  at  the  same  stroke. 

Gregers.  If  that  held  good,  it  would  not  be  worth 
while  to  live  one's  life. 

Relling.  Then  do  you  think  it's  such  an  important 
thing  to  live  your  life  ? 

Gregers.  Not  I;  on  the  contrary;  but  it  isn't  my 
destiny  either  to  live  my  life;   I  have  another  mission. 

Relling.     What  mission  is  that? 

Gregers.     To  be  the  thirteenth  at  table.  (Goes.) 

Relling.     The  devil  it  Is, 


ROSMERSHOLM 


" WHITE   HORSES" 

He,  the  noble,  refined  nature,  who  has  come  round  to 
a  liberal  point  of  view  and  from  whom  all  his  former 
friends  and  acquaintances  have  withdrawn.  A  widower; 
was  unhappily  married  to  a  melancholy,  half-mad  wife, 
who  ended  by  drowning  herself. 

She,  his  two  daughters'  governess,  emancipated,  warm- 
blooded, somewhat  remorseless  in  a  refined  way.  Is 
regarded  by  their  acquaintance  as  the  evil  spirit  of  the 
house;  is  the  object  of  misinterpretation  and  scandal. 

Elder  daughter;  is  in  danger  of  succumbing  to  inactiv- 
ity and  loneliness;  highly  gifted,  without  any  application 
for  her  talents. 

Younger  daughter;  observant;   dawning  passions. 

The  journalist;   genius,  vagabond. 


DRAFT 

In  the  drawing-room  of  the  parsonage.  Dialogue  be- 
tween S.  and  Miss  B.  The  student  comes  in  from  a  walk. 
The  old  retired  apothecary  calls  on  business;  goes  away. 
The  family  assembled.  The  cavalry  captain.  The  mag- 
istrate and  his  daughter  come  to  call  and  bring  an  invi- 
tation; it  is  accepted;  then  the  change  of  views  is  to  be 
disclosed.  The  family  alone;  conversation  turns  on  the 
white  horses. 

265 


266  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

DRAFT 

1st  Act 
In    the    drawing-room    of   the    country    house.     The 
clergyman  and  the  young  lady; 


She  is  an  intriguer  and  she  loves  him.  She  wishes  to 
be  his  wife  and  she  pursues  this  end  with  determination. 
Then  he  finds  this  out  and  she  frankly  admits  it.  There 
is  now  no  more  happiness  in  life  for  him.  The  daemonic 
in  his  nature  is  awakened  by  pain  and  bitterness.  He 
desires  to  die,  and  she  is  to  die  with  him.     She  does  so<> 


FIRST  ACT 


Sitting-room  at  Boldt-Romer*  s.  The  room  is  old-fashioned 
bid  comfortable.  On  the  right  a  large  stove;  farther 
back  a  door.  In  the  back  wall,  a  double  door  opening 
into  the  hall.  To  the  left,  two  windows,  with  flowers 
in  pots  on  the  tvindow-frames.  By  the  farther  win- 
dow, a  table  with  a  sewing-machine;  in  the  corner, 
on  the  right,  a  sofa  with  a  table  and  easy  chairs. 
On  the  walls,  old  family  portraits,  representing*  officers 
and  clergymen.  It  is  afternoon.  The  sun  is  shin- 
ing into  tite  room. 

(Boldt-Romer  is  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  in  front  of 
the  stove,  reading  a  magazine.  Miss  Radeck  sits 
over  by  tlie  window,  working  at  the  sewing-machine.) 

Boldt-Romer    (letting   his   book  drop).     H'm,   it   is 
strange  for  all  that. 


ROSMERSHOLM  26? 

Miss  Radeck  (looking  at  him).  What  is  it  you 
mean  ? 

Boldt-Romer.  It  is  strange  for  me  to  be  sitting  here 
— in  Easter  week — without  anything  to  attend  to;  with- 
out anything  to  be  responsible  for. 

Miss  Radeck.     But  don't  you  feel  that  is  a  relief  ? 

Boldt-Romer.  Yes,  you  may  be  sure  I  do.  It's 
only  at  first — .     Where  are  the  girls  to-day  ? 

Miss  Radeck.  I  expect  they're  down  at  the  mill- 
pond  skating. 

Boldt-Romer  (rising).  I  didn't  like  to  say  so  before. 
For  they  must  have  some  amusement.  But  I  so  greatly 
dislike  their  skating  down  on  the  pond. 

Miss  Radeck.  Oh,  there's  no  danger  at  all.  It's 
not  so  deep;   and  besides,  the  ice  is  perfectly  safe. 

Boldt-Romer.  I  know  that;  it  isn't  that  I  was 
thinking  of. 

Miss  Radeck  (looking  at  him) .  I  see,  it's  on  account 
of — the  other  thing? 

Boldt-Romer.  Yes.  I  think  there  is  something  un- 
canny in  the  children  skating  and  playing  and  making 
a  noise  just  over  the  spot  that  was  their  mother's  death- 
bed. 

Miss  Radeck.  But  the  girls  know  nothing  about 
that. 

Boldt-Romer.  No;  but  we  know  about  it  unfor- 
tunately; and  therefore  I  cannot  get  rid  of — .  Well, 
well,  I  know  of  course  it's  meaningless;  nothing  but  a 
sort  of  prejudice,  or  whatever  we  may  call  it;  but  never- 
theless  

Miss  Radeck.  Then  you  haven't  got  over  that  kind 
of  thing  yet  ? 

Boldt-Romer.  I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  get  over  it 
entirely. 


263  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Miss  Radeck.  Then  you  ought  to  try  whether  you 
cannot  recover  your  former  standpoint. 

Boldt-Romer.  That?  Never  while  I'm  alive!  That 
I  neither  can  nor  will  do. 

Miss  Radeck.  At  all  events  it  would  have  been  better 
for  you  if  you  had  never  left  it. 

Boldt-Romer.  And  you  can  say  that?  To  me? 
To  me,  who  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  happy  until  I 
had  achieved  spiritual  emancipation. 

Miss  Radeck.  Oh,  you  have  a  long  way  to  go  yet 
before  you  achieve  complete  emancipation.  I  believe  it 
would  have  been  better  for  you  if  I  had  never  entered 
jyour  door. 

Boldt-Romer.     Then  what  should  I  have  been  now  ? 

Miss  Radeck.     What  you  were  before. 

Boldt-Romer.  Yes,  that  is  true.  A  creature  without 
breadth  of  vision;  without  the  least  understanding  of 
the  life  of  reality  that  is  struggling  and  working  around  us. 

Miss  Radeck.  Ah,  but  for  all  that;  with  a  nature  so 
gentle  as  yours;  and  then  all  that  you  have  inherited  and 
that  has  left  its  mark  on  you.  Oh  no,  it's  not  so  easy — . 
(Looks  oat.)     Look;   here  comes  the  Rector. 

Boldt-R5mer.     Who  is  it? 

Miss  Radeck.     Your  brother-in-law. 

(Rector  Hermann  enters  from  the  hall.) 

Hermann.     But  what  is  this  I  see  in  the  papers  ? 

Rosenhjelm.     Have  the  papers  come  ? 

Hermann.  Yes,  and  they  say  you  have  resigned  your 
living. 

Rosenhjelm.  I've  been  thinking  of  it  for  a  long  time. 
I  cannot  continue.     It  is  impossible. 

Hermann.  One  can  Understand  very  well  that  you 
cannot  associate  yourself  with  all  these  gloomy  pietistic 


ROSMERSHOLM  269 

tendencies  that  have  gained  the  upper  hand  in  no  many 
circles.     But  isn't  it  then  your  duty  to  counteract 

Rosenhjelm.  Not  as  a  clergyman.  I  cannot  con- 
tinue in  that  position. 

H.     That  I  don't  understand. 

R.  I  ought  never  to  have  taken  orders.  Nor  was  it 
of  my  own  free  will  that  I  did  so.  But,  you  see,  it  was  a 
family  tradition.  The  Church  and  the  Army  by  turns — 
from  father  to  son.  And  as  my  father  was  a  soldier,  it 
was  perfectly  natural  that  I  should  take  up  theology. 
At  that  time  I  thought  myself  that  it  was  as  it  should  be. 

H.  And  now  you  had  become  so  firmly  fixed  in  it. 
What  will  you  turn  to  now — in  the  prime  of  life  ? 

R.     Well,  I  have  all  the  affairs  of  the  estate 

H.  That  won't  fill  up  your  time;  and  you  have 
a  steward  and  tenants  too.  No,  it's  no  use  making 
any  more  excuses.  You  must  and  shall  take  part  in 
public  life. 

R.     I  had  been  thinking  of  that  too — in  my  own  way. 

H.  Not  in  any  private  way  of  your  own.  You  must 
enter  the  ranks  of  the  party.  You  can  see  well  enough 
how  great  a  need  there  is.  Choose  a  special  line.  Op- 
pose this  Mortensgard  who's  stirring  up  all  the  ignorant 
mob.     And  now  I  hear  he  is  thinking  of  starting  a  paper. 

R.  Is  he  ?  Well,  the  man  has  gifts.  He  knows  how 
to  write  and  speak. 

H.  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  that's  an  easy  matter  when  a 
man  is  not  too  particular  as  to  the  truth  or  the  facts. 

R.     Well,  I  know  so  little  of  the  facts  in  such  matters. 

H.  But  I  know  them.  And  I  have  had  occasion  to 
verify  this  Mortensgard.  He  is  one  of  the  most  unprinci- 
pled pettifoggers  we  have  in  these  parts.  And  that's 
**ying  a  good  deal,  I  can  tell  you. 


270  PROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

R.  But  is  it  not  the  fact  that  these  Radicals  have  ac- 
complished much  good  in  the  last  few  years  ? 

H.  That  I  will  never  admit  as  long  as  I  live.  They  ? 
What  good  should  they  accomplish?  Can  any  good 
come  from  such  an  impure  source? 

R.  But  have  we  the  right  to  be  so  positive  in  our  judg- 
ment of  the  source? 

H.  Don't  carry  your  humanity  to  extremes,  my  dear 
Rosenhjelm.  And  what  is  the  good  you  have  discovered  ? 
Perhaps  you  allude  to  the  demagogues'  coup  d'  Etat  ? 

R.  I  don't  understand  such  matters.  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  there  is  rather  more  independence  in  the  ideas 
of  individuals. 

H.  And  you  reckon  that  a  good  thing  among  people 
who  are  so  unstable  and  immature?  I  think  you  are 
considerably  mistaken.  And  I  must  say  I  am  greatly 
surprised  to  hear  such  words  from  you.  You  who,  after 
all,  have  inherited  all  your  family's  respect  for  authority 
and  good  order. 

R.  Who  knows? — perhaps  one  cannot  altogether 
avoid  being  infected  by  the  time  one  lives  in. 

H.  Still  I  hope  that  will  never  be  the  case  with  either 
you  or  me.  We  will  keep  ourselves  unstained,  Will 
we  not,  Rosenhjelm? 

R.  To  keep  one's  self  unstained,  so  far  as  possible,  is 
undoubtedly  the  task  of  everyone. 

H.  Yes,  and  to  spread  purity  around  one,  or  in  any 
case  to  keep  contamination  at  a  distance. 

R.     There  I  certainly  agree  with  you. 

H.  Well,  then  you  must  also  join  us  in  acting,  taking 
part  in  public  life,  combating  all  these  fatal  tendencies 

R.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  if  one  is  not  made  for  any  of 
this? 


ROSMERSHOLM  271 

H.  In  a  cultured  society  everyone  is  made  to  be  a 
citizen. 

R.     Everyone  ? 

H.  I  mean,  of  course,  everyone  who  has  the  neces- 
sary qualifications,  everyone  who  possesses  a  certain  mod- 
icum of  education  and  intelligence,  I  don't  ask  for  actual 
scholarship.  But  ordinary  education  and  knowledge  one 
ought  really  to  be  able  to  demand.  Now  that  is  what 
it  would  be  so  extremely  beneficial  to  bring  home  to  the 
masses. 

II 

WHITE   HORSES 
A  PLAY  IN  FIVE  ACTS 

BY 

Henrik  Ibsen 
1886 

FIRST  ACT 

An  old-fashioned,  but  large  and  comfortable  sitting-room 
at  Rosmer's.  On  the  right,  a  stove;  farther  back, 
on  the  same  side,  a  door.  In  the  back  wall,  folding- 
doors  opening  into  the  hall.  To  the  left,  two  windows, 
with  flowers  in  pots  on  a  stand.  Beside  the  Move  a 
sofa  with  table  and  easy  chairs.  On  the  walls,  old 
family  portraits  representing  officers  and  clergymen. 
It  is  late  afternoon.  The  winter  sun  shines  into  the 
room. 

(Mrs.  Rosmer  is  standing  by  the  farthest  windoio,  ar- 
ranging the  flowers.  Madam  Helset  enters  from 
the  right  with  a  basket  of  table  linen.) 


272  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Madam  Helset.  I  suppose  I  had  better  begin  to  lay 
the  tea-table,  ma'am? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Yes,  please  do.  He  must  soon  be  in 
now. 

Madam  Helset  {laying  the  cloth).  No,  he  won't 
come  just  yet;   for  I  saw  him  from  the  kitchen 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Yes,  yes 

Madam  Helset.  — on  the  other  side  of  the  mill- 
pond.  At  first  he  was  going  straight  across  the  foot- 
bridge;  but  then  he  turned  back 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Did  he  ? 

Madam  Helset.  Yes,  and  then  he  went  all  the  way 
round.  Ah,  it's  strange  about  such  places.  A  place 
where  a  thing  like  that  has  happened — there — .  It  stays 
there;   it  isn't  forgotten  so  soon.- 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     No,  it  is  not  forgotten. 

Madam  Helset.     No,  indeed  it  isn't. 

(Goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Mrs.  Rosmer  (at  the  window,  looking  out).  Forget. 
Forget,  ah ! 

Madam  Helset  (in  the  doorway).  I've  just  seen  the 
Rector,  ma'am.     He's  coming  here. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Are  you  sure  of  that? 

Madam  Helset.     Yes,  he  went  across  the  mill-pond. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     And  my  husband  is  not  at  home. 

Madam  Helset.  The  tea  is  ready  as  soon  as  you 
want  it. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  But  wait;  we  can't  tell  whether  he'll 
stay. 

Madam  Helset.     Yes,  yes.        (Goes  out  to  tJie  right.) 

Mrs.  Rosmer  (goes  over  and  opens  the  door  to  the 
hall).  Good  afternoon;  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  my 
dear  Rector! 


ROSMERSHOLM  273 

Rector  Gylling  (taking  off  his  overcoat) .  Thanks. 
Then  I  am  not  disturbing  you  ? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Oh  no,  how  can  you  think  so  ?  On 
the  contrary. 

Rector  Gylling  (coming  in).  Well,  that's  all  right. 
But  where's  your  husband  ? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  He  has  only  gone  for  a  little  walk.  I 
think  he'll  be  in  directly.  Won't  you  sit  down  till  he 
comes  ? 

Gylling  (sits  down  by  the  stove).  Many  thanks. 
There  is  something  I  should  like  to  speak  to  him  about. 

Mrs.  Rosmer  (sits  down  at  the  table).  That  is  for- 
tunate, for  it  has  given  us  a  chance  of  seeing  you  at  last. 
How  is  it  you  haven't  been  near  us  before? 

Gylling.  Oh,  it  doesn't  do  to  make  oneself  a  nui- 
sance to  young  married  people. 

Mrs.  Rosmer  (smiling).  H'm — we  are  not  so  very 
young,  you  know. 

Gylling.  Well,  newly-married  anyhow.  But  I  have 
been  away  too,  as  you  know,  for  a  couple  of  weeks. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Yes,  we  have  heard  of  you  at  political 
meetings. 

Gylling.  I've  turned  political  agitator,  as  the  radical 
papers  call  it — in  speaking  of  us.  Or  perhaps  you  never 
see  those  papers  ? 

Mrs.  Rosmer  (quickly).  Oh  yes,  we  see  them  now 
and  then 

Gylling.  Well,  then  you  have  seen,  I  suppose,  how 
I  have  been  abused  and  slandered  ?  What  rough  treat- 
ment I  have  had  to  put  up  with? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Yes,  but  it  seems  to  me  you  gave  as 
good  as  you  got. 

Gylling.  So  I  did,  though  I  say  it  that  shouldn't. 
If  I  have  to  appear  in  public,  I  am  certainly  not  the  man 


274  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

to  turn  the  other  cheek. — But  don't  let  us  get  upon  the 
subject  of  that  painful  and  irritating  wrangle.  Tell  me 
now — how  do  you  like  being  mistress  of  the  house? 

Mrs.  Rosmer  (in  a  lower  tone).  I  feel  in  every  way  so 
unspeakably  happy. 

Gylling.  Well,  I'm  heartily  glad  of  it.  Nor  could 
it  be  otherwise.  A  husband  like  Eilert  Rosmer!  And 
then  the  fact  that  you  do  not  find  yourself  amid  strange 
surroundings  which  you  have  to  accustom  yourself  to. 
For  this  house  and  everything  belonging  to  it  has  been 
like  a  home  to  you  for  a  long  time.  The  only  difference 
is  that  now  it  is  all  your  own. 

Mrs.  Rosmer  (moving  a  little  nearer).  My  dear  Rec- 
tor, you  say  that  so  sincerely  that  I  cannot  think  there  is 
any  ill-feeling  lurking  in  the  background. 

Gylling.     Ill-feeling  ?     Why,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  It  would  be  only  natural  if  you  felt  a 
little  hurt  at  seeing  another  in  possession,  where  you  were 
accustomed  to  see  your  own  sister  until  a  year  or  two 
ago.  But  you  don't  feel  that  ?  (Giving  him  her  hand.) 
Thanks,  my  dear  Rector!     Thanks,  thanks  for  that! 

Gylling.  But  tell  me,  how  on  earth  did  you  get  such 
an  idea  into  your  head  ?  That  I  should  object — now 
that  my  poor  sister  is  gone — that  I  should  now  object  to 
your  taking  her  empty  place — to  your  making  Rosmer 
happy — after  all  his  melancholy  experience — and  to  your 
being  yourself  happy  after  all  your  untiring  care  for  her 
— for  her,  that  poor  irresponsible  creature,  who  chose  to 
— who  ended  by — leaving  it  all. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Oh,  don't  let  us  speak  of  these  gloomy 
things.     Don't  let  us  think  of  them. 

Gylling.  No,  let  us  not.  Let  us  keep  to  what  is 
bright.     Tell  me  now,  Mrs.  Rosmer — .     But  first  one 


ROSMERSHOLM  275 

thing — ;   may  I  be  allowed  to  call  you  Agatha,  as  she 
did? 

Mrs.  Rosmer  {joyfully).     Oh  yes,  please  ic      (Shak- 
ing his  hands.)     Thanks,  thanks  for  wanting  to' 
(Eilert  Rosmer  comes  in  from  the  right.) 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Rosmer,  do  you  see  who  is  here  ? 

Rosmer.  Madam  Helset  told  me.  (Pressing  the  Rec- 
tor's hands.)  Welcome  back  to  this  house,  old  friend. 
I  knew  that  sooner  or  later  things  would  come  all  right 
between  us. 

Gylling.  Why,  man,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  too 
have  been  so  foolish  as  to  fancy  that  I  was  on  a  strained 
footing  with  you  ? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Yes,  only  think,  it  was  nothing  but 
fancy  after  all. 

Rosmer.  Is  that  really  the  case,  Gylling  ?  Then  why 
did  you  desert  us  so  entirely  ? 

Gylling.  Because  my  presence  would  always  have 
been  reminding  you  of  the  years  of  your  unhappiness,  and 
and  of — the  life  that  ended  in  the  mill-pond. 

Rosmer.  Well,  it  was  a  kind  and  considerate  thought 
of  yours,  Gylling.  But  I  must  tell  you  that  it  was  alto- 
gether unnecessary.  Neither  Agnete  nor  little  Alfred  is 
a  memory  that  it  pains  us  to  dwell  upon.  On  the  con- 
trary. We  often  speak  of  them.  We  feel  almost  as  if 
they  still  belonged  to  the  household. 

Gylling.     Do  you  really  ?     Can  you  do  that  ? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Yes,  why  not ? 

Rosmer.  It  is  quite  natural.  Both  Agatha  and  I 
were  so  deeply  attached  to  those  who  are  gone.  Oh, 
it  is  a  great  happiness  to  have  nothing  to  reproach  oneself 
with 

Gylling.  Henceforward,  I  declare  I  shall  come  out 
and  see  you  every  day. 


276  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Oh,  if  you  would  do  that! 

Rosmer.  I  wish  very  much  that  our  intercourse  had 
never  been  interrupted.  There  are  many  things  that  I 
would  give  a  great  deal  to  talk  over  with  you,  quite 
frankly, — straight  from  the  heart. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Ah  yes,  Rosmer!     Do  so  now. 

Gylling.  Oh  I  can  tell  you  I  have  no  less  to  talk 
to  you  about.  I  suppose  you  know  I  have  turned  agi- 
tator ? 

Rosmer.     Yes,  so  you  have. 

Gylling.  It's  quite  impossible  now  for  any  thought- 
ful and  right-minded  man  to  stand  idly  looking  on  any 
longer.  Now  that  the  Radicals  have  really  come  into 
power,  it  is  time  for  all  well-disposed  citizens  to  unite — 
it  is  high  time,  I  say 

Mrs.  Rosmer  (with  a  suppressed  smile).  Don't  you 
think  it  may  even  be  a  little  late? 

Gylling.  Unquestionably  it  would  have  been  better 
if  we  had  checked  the  stream  at  an  earlier  point  in  its 
course.  But  who  could  foresee  what  was  going  to  hap- 
pen ?  Certainly  not  I.  But  now  I  have  had  my  eyes 
opened  once  for  all ;  for,  would  you  believe  it  ?  now  the 
spirit  of  revolt  has  crept  into  the  school  itself. 

Rosmer.     Into  the  school  ?     Into  your  school  ? 

Gylling.  I  tell  you  it  has.  Into  my  own  school. 
What  do  you  think?  It  has  come  to  my  knowledge 
that  the  sixth-form  boys — a  number  of  them  at  any  rate, 
have  formed  a  society,  and  they  take  in  Mortensgard's 
paper. 

Rosmer.     H'm . 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  I  have  generally  noticed  that  young 
men  are  not  inclined  to  be  Radicals. 

Gylling.  Most  of  them  are  not.  That  is  perfectly 
true.     Most  of  us,  thank  God,  are  still  at  that  age  so  far 


ROSMERSHOLM  277 

subject  to  respect  for  authority,  both  at  home  and  in 
school,  that  we  do  not  lend  an  ear  to  immature  criticism 
of  recognised  institutions.  But  unfortunately  there  are 
exceptions  to  the  rule.  And  to  us  schoolmasters  it  is  a 
melancholy  fact  that  the  very  boys  who  are  best  equipped 
with  mental  ability  form  the  exceptions. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Yes,  I  have  noticed  that  too. 

Gylling.  But  that  makes  them  all  the  more  danger- 
ous, these  few  black  sheep.  They  are  capable  of  infect- 
ing my  whole  flock.  The  whole  form.  The  whole 
school.  You  see,  that  is  why  I  have  not  hesitated  to 
take  an  active  part  in  these  political  meetings  and  to 
warn  people  against  the  corrupt  spirit  that  has  appeared 
among  us  for  the  moment. 

Rosmer.  But  have  you  any  hope  that  the  tide  can  be 
stemmed  in  that  way  ? 

Gylling.  At  any  rate  I  shall  have  done  my  duty  as 
a  citizen  in  defence  of  the  State.  And  I  hold  it  the  duty 
of  every  right-minded  man  with  an  atom  of  patriotism 
to  do  likewise.  In  fact,  that  was  my  principal  reason  for 
coming  out  here  to-day 

Rosmer.     What?     Do  you  mean  that  I  should ? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  But,  my  dear  Rector,  you  know  his 
distaste 

Gylling.  He  must  get  over  it.  (To  Rosmer.)  You 
don't  keep  abreast  of  things.  You  cannot  imagine  the 
state  things  are  in,  all  over  the  country.  There  isn't  a 
single  accepted  idea  that  hasn't  been  turned  topsy-turvy. 
It  will  be  a  gigantic  task  to  get  all  the  errors  rooted 
out  again. 

Rosmer.  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  But  I  am  the  last 
man  to  undertake  such  a  task. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Rosmer,  I  think  it  is  time  you  spoke 
out  frankly. 


278  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Gylling.  You  are  too  shy,  Rosmer.  You  hold  your* 
self  too  much  aloof  from  life.  You  gave  up  your  liv- 
ing  

Rosmer.  Well,  now  I  will  speak.  Why  do  you  think 
I  gave  up  my  living  ? 

Gylling.  Oh,  I  know  that  well  enough.  I  don't 
think  there  was  anything  surprising  in  your  feeling  the 
unpleasantness  of  not  being  able  to  join  in  the  pietistic 
tendencies  which  then  found  favour  in  so  many  circles 
here. 

Rosmer.  I  ought  never  to  have  taken  orders,  never 
to  have  entered  upon  that  class  of  studies;  that  is  the 
main  point. 

Gylling.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  then  you  would  have 
broken  with  one  of  the  best  and  most  unalterable  tra- 
ditions of  your  family.  Eilert  Hannibal  Rosmer  was  a 
soldier.  Consequently  his  son,  Eilert  Alfred  Rosmer,  had 
to  be  a  clergyman.  Thus  it  has  alternated  for  over  two 
hundred  years.  I  am  well  acquainted  with  these  things, 
from  my  work  on  the  family  pedigree. 

Rosmer.  Yes,  and  no  doubt  it  was  that  which  deter- 
mined me  in  those  days.  Or  rather,  there  was  no  ques- 
tion of  a  determination  on  my  part.  Father — h'm,  you 
know  he  was  a  martinet  in  his  family  circle  as  well  as  in 
his  regiment — father  would  have  it  so,  and  there  was  an 
end  of  it. 

Gylling  (with  a  sigh).  Ah,  that  was  in  the  days  of 
decent  social  conditions! 

Rosmer.  And  I,  unfortunately,  must  have  belonged 
to  the  class  of  young  men  you  were  talking  of  just  now — 
those  with  a  poor  mental  equipment. 

Gylling.    You  !    How  on  earth  do  you  make  that  out  ? 

Rosmer.  Why,  there  wasn't  a  spark  of  rebellious 
spirit  in  me  then. 


ROSMERSHOLM  279 

Gylling.  No,  with  God's  help  tlvat  spirit  will  never 
possess  you. 

Rosmer.  Yet  I  have  come  to  take  a  wider  view  of 
life  than  I  used  to. 

Gylling.  Look  here,  Rosmer — surely  you  are  not 
so  weak  as  to  be  influenced  by  the  accident  that  the 
leaders  of  the  mob  have  won  a  temporary  advantage  ? 

Rosmer.  I  am  little  acquainted  with  these  questions; 
but  I  confess  it  seems  to  me  that  within  the  last  few 
years  people  are  beginning  to  show  greater  independence 
of  thought. 

Gylling.  And  what  if  they  are  ?  Would  you  really 
take  that  to  be  an  improvement  among  unstable  and  im- 
mature people  ?  But  in  any  case  you  are  quite  mistaken. 
Or  what  kind  of  ideas  and  opinions  are  they  that  are  rife 
among  the  malcontents  in  your  rural  district  ?  Are  they 
not  the  same  ideas  and  opinions  that  excite  the  ill-dis- 
posed in  the  town  ?  Yes,  precisely.  And  do  you  sup- 
pose the  mob  sucks  these  ideas  and  opinions  from  its  own 
breast  P  No,  of  course  not — they  find  them  in  Peder 
Mortensgard's  paper.  And  that's  an  appetising  source 
to  draw  from! 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  It  can't  be  denied  that  Mortensgard 
knows  how  to  write. 

Gylling.  Yes,  but,  good  heavens — a  man  of  his 
foul  antecedents!  Well,  the  Radicals  are  not  very  par- 
ticular as  regards  moral  character.  That  is  why  he  is 
a  dangerous  man,  this  Mortensgard.  He  is  one  of  the 
most  dangerous  we  have  here.  And  he  may  give  us 
even  more  trouble  in  the  future.  For  now  he  is  thinking 
of  enlarging  his  paper;  it  is  to  appear  daily;  I  know  on 
good  authority  that  he  is  looking  for  a  capable  assistant. 

Rosmer.  But  why  don't  you  and  the  others  think  of 
starting  a  paper  in  opposition  to  him  ?     Your  friends  in 


280  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

the  town  could  provide  the  capital.  I'm  sure  it  would 
not  be  difficult 

Gylling.  Ah,  now  you've  brought  me  to  my  real 
errand.  That  is  the  very  thing  we  have  thought  of.  As 
far  as  the  money  question  is  concerned,  the  undertaking 
is  assured.  But  the  conduct  of  the  paper — the  editing, 
Rosmer.  Tell  me — don't  you  feel  it  your  duty  to  under- 
take it,  for  the  sake  of  the  good  cause? 

Rosmer.     I! 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Oh,  how  can  you  ask ! 

Gylling.  I  should  be  quite  willing  to  try  my  hand 
at  that  style  of  work  too;  but  it  is  altogether  impossible. 
I  have  such  a  multitude  of  irons  in  the  fire  already. 
But  for  you,  with  no  profession  to  tie  you  down 

Rosmer.  In  any  case  I  have  the  management  of  the 
estate. 

Gylling.  Nonsense;  the  management  of  your  estate 
doesn't  take  up  much  of  your  time. 

Rosmer.  But  nevertheless,  it  is  quite  impossible.  I 
feel  so  altogether  unsuitable — ;   I  am  not  fitted 

Gylling.  You  can  never  know  that  until  you  have 
tried.  Besides,  the  rest  of  us  would  give  you  as  much 
help  as  we  could.  And  then,  too,  you  start  with  an 
immense  advantage  in  the  unbounded  prestige  you  enjoy 
in  the  whole  county.  No  other  man  can  compare  with 
you  in  that  respect.  The  name  of  Rosmer — good  heav- 
ens— the  family  of  Rosmer,  that  from  time  immemorial 
has  stood  as  the  symbol  of  all  that  is  old  and  good  and 
just  and  upright.  That,  you  see,  is  just  what  will  en- 
able you  to  act  with  tenfold  weight. — What  do  you 
say,  Mrs.  Rosmer? 

Mrs.  Rosmer  (laughing).  My  dear  Rector,  I  can't 
tell  you  how  ludicrous  all  this  seems  to  me. 

Gylling.     What  do  you  say  ?     Ludicrous  ? 


ROSMERSHOLM  281 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Yes,  ludicrous,.  For  you  must  let  me 
teli  you  frankly 

Rosmer.     No,  let  me  say  it  myself 

(Madam  Helset  appears  in  the  doorway  on  the 
right) . 

Madam  Helset.  There's  a  man  out  in  the  kitchen 
passage  says  he  wants  to  see  Pastor  Rosmer. 

Rosmer.     Oh?     Ask  him  to  come  in. 

Madam  Helset.     Into  the  sitting-room  ? 

Rosmer.     Yes,  of  course. 

Madam  Helset.  But  he  looks  scarcely  the  sort  of 
man  to  bring  into  the  sitting-room. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Why,  what  does  he  look  like,  Madam 
Helset? 

Madam  Helset.  Well,  he's  not  much  to  look  at, 
ma'am. 

Rosmer.     Did  he  not  give  his  name? 

Madam  Helset.     Yes,  he  said  his  name  was  Uldric. 

Rosmer.     Ulric  ? 

Madam  Helset.  Yes,  and  then  he  gave  another 
name.  I  think  it  sounded  like  Rosen — holm,  or  some- 
thing like  that. 

Rosmer.  Ulric  Rosen — ?  Surely  it  can't  be  Ulric 
Rosenhjelm  ? 

Madam  Helset.     Yes,  that's  what  he  said. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     That  unfortunate  Ulric  Rosenhjelm. 

Gylling.  That  black  sheep  Rosenhjelm.  So  he's  in 
these  parts. 

Rosmer.     Ask  him  to  come  in,  Madam  Helset. 

Madam  Helset.     Oh,  very  well.  (Goes  out.) 

Gylling.  Are  you  really  going  to  have  an  individual 
like  that  in  your  house  ? 

Rosmer.  I  knew  him  a  little  in  the  days  of  his  pros- 
perity. 


282  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Didn't  you  know  him  too,  Rector  ? 

Gylling.     Never  personally.     H'm . 

(Madam    Helset  opens  the  door  on  ilie  right  for 

Ulric  Rosenhjelm,  and  then  withdraws,  shutting 

the  door  behind  him.     He  has  unkempt  hair  and 

beard,  and  is  dressed  like  a  common  tramp.     Xo 

overcoat;    worn-out  shoes;    no  shirt  visible.     He 

wears  an  old  pair  of  black  gloves;    a  bolder  hat 

under  his  arm  and  a  stick  in  his  hand.) 

Rosenhjelm  (hesitates  at  first,  then  goes  quickly  up  to 

the  Rector,  and  holds  out  his  hand).     How  are  you, 

Rosmer! 

Gylling.     Excuse  me;    (points)  there 

Rosenhjelm  (turns).  Right,  yes;  there  he  is.  How 
are  you,  Rosmer.  I  could  not  pass  by  the  house  without 
paying  you  a  visit. 

Rosmer.     Travellers  are  always  welcome  here. 
Rosenhjelm.     I  had  no  card  on  me;   but  I  hope  the 
elderly  lady  I  met  outside  has  announced  me  ?     Well, 
that's  all  right.     (Bows.)     Ah,  Mrs.  Rosmer,  of  course. 
And  there?     A  brother  of  the  cloth,  I  see. 
Rosmer.     The  Rector.     Rector  Gylling. 
Rosenhjelm.      Gylling?      Gylling?      Wait     a     bit; 
weren't  you  a  student  of  philology? 
Gylling.     Of  course  I  was. 

Rosenhjelm.  Why,  devil  take  it,  then  I  knew 
you 


Gylling.     Pardon  me 

Rosenhjelm.     Weren't  you 

Gylling.     Pardon  me 

Rosenhjelm.  — one  of  those  who  got  me  expelled 
from  the  Students'  Club  ? 

Gylling.  Certainly;  but  I  disclaim  any  closer  ac- 
quaintanceship. 


ROSMERSHOLM  283 

Rosenhjelm.  Well,  well;  nach  Belieben,  H err  Rector. 
It's  all  one  to  me.     I  remain  the  man  I  am  for  all  that. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  You  are  on  your  way  into  town,  Mr. 
Rosenhjelm  ? 

Rosenhjelm.  Yes,  gracious  lady,  I  am.  I  feel  al- 
most ashamed  of  not  knowing  this  part  of  the  country. 
What  is  the  state  of  feeling  in  this  town  ?  You  see,  I'm 
thinking  of  getting  up  an  evening  entertainment. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     What  is  it  to  consist  of? 

Rosenhjelm.  Whatever  may  be  to  the  taste  of  the 
public.  Could  you  not  give  me  some  good  advice,  Rec- 
tor ?     I  will  take  the  liberty  of  paying  you  a  visit. 

Gylling.  Thanks;  but  you'd  better  apply  direct  to 
Peder  Mortensgard. 

Rosenhjelm.  Mortensgard  ?  Don't  know  any  Mor- 
tensgard.    What  sort  of  an  idiot  is  he  ? 

Gylling.  Why  do  you  call  the  man  an  idiot,  if  you 
don't  know  him  ? 

Rosenhjelm.  Can't  I  tell  at  once  by  the  name  that 
it  belongs  to  a  plebeian  ? 

Gylling.     Oh?     I  didn't  expect  that  answer. 

Rosenhjelm.  Perhaps  you  think  that  Ulric  Rosen- 
hjelm hob-nobs  with  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  ? 

Gylling.  So  far  as  I  know,  you  used  to  be  specially 
interested  in  the  lower  orders  of  society. 

Rosenhjelm.  Yes,  I  was;  and  I  had  to  suffer  for  it. 
Persecution  from  those  in  authority;  ridicule,  scorn  and 
mockery  from  the  thousands  of  indifferent  people  who 
will  not  understand  anything — and  ingratitude  from  the 
oppressed,  whom  I  tried  to  help.  Look  at  me.  Here 
you  see  Ulric  Rosenhjelm,  who  belonged  to  good  society, 
to  the  best  society — and  who  was  the  first  in  good  society. 
They  turned  me  out  because  I  had  the  ability  and  the 
courage  to  say  and  write  things  that  the  polite  world 


284  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

would  rather  have  hidden.  Now  I  never  go  into  good 
society — except  when  I  am  alone. 

Gylling.  It  may  not  be  merely  ability  or  opposition 
that  determine  one's  destiny.  It  may  also  be  one's 
mode  of  life. 

Rosenhjelm.  I  understand.  We  have  an  official 
code  of  morality,  and  I  have  not  lived  in  harmony  with 
it.  However,  I  am  tired  of  that  too.  I  will  put  on  the 
new  man,  as  it  is  written  somewhere.  Is  there  such  a 
thing  as  a  Temperance  Society  in  the  town  ?  A  Total 
Abstinence  Society?     I  need  scarcely  ask. 

Gylling.     Yes;   I  am  the  president. 

Rosenhjelm.  I  saw  that  in  your  face!  Well,  it  is 
by  no  means  impossible  that  I  may  come  to  you  and 
enroll  myself  as  a  member.    t 

Gylling.  Yes;  I  must  tell  you  that  we  don't  receive 
everybody  without  further  ceremony. 

Rosenhjelm.  A  la  bonne  heure!  Ulric  Rosenhjelm 
has  never  forced  himself  into  that  sort  of  Society.  But 
I  must  not  prolong  my  visit.  I  must  be  on  my  way  to 
the  town  and  look  out  for  a  lodging.  I  presume  there 
is  a  decent  hotel  in  the  place. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Mayn't  I  offer  you  anything  before 
you  go  ? 

Rosenhjelm.     Of  what  sort  ? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     A  cup  of  tea,  or 

Rosenhjelm.  No,  no,  thanks.  I  am  always  loath 
to  trespass  on  private  hospitality.  Good-bye.  Oh,  by 
the  way,  Rosmer;  for  the  sake  of  our  old  friendship,  will 
you  do  me  a  service? 

Rosmer.     Yes,  gladly.     What  is  it? 

Rosenhjelm.  You  see,  I  am  travelling  on  foot.  My 
things  won't  arrive  till  later.  Will  you  lend  me  a  shirt 
for  a  day  or  two  ? 


ROSMERSHOLM  285 

Rosmer.     With  all  my  heart.     Is  there  nothing  else? 

Rosenhjelm.     Could  you  spare  an  overcoat? 

Rosmer.     Yes,  yes;   certainly  I  can. 

Rosenhjelm.  And  perhaps  a  pair  of  winter  boots — I 
have  nothing  but  spring  shoes  with  me. 

Rosmer.  That  I  can  manage  too.  As  soon  as  you  let 
me  know  your  address,  I  will  send  the  things  in. 

Rosenhjelm.  Not  on  any  account.  So  much  trouble. 
I  will  take  the  trifles  with  me. 

Rosmer.     As  you  please.     Come  here  with  me  then. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Let  me  go.  Madam  Helset  and  I  will 
see  to  it.  (Goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Rosmer.     Is  there  nothing  else  I  can  do  for  you  ? 

Rosenhjelm.  No,  thanks.  Well,  yes,  damn  it,  I'd 
forgotten — do  you  happen  to  have  ten  crowns  in  your 
pocket  ? 

Rosmer.  I  expect  so.  (Opens  his  purse.)  Here  are 
fifteen. 

Rosenhjelm.  Well  well,  thanks,  never  mind. 
Thanks  in  the  meantime.  Remember  you  lent  me 
fifteen.     Good-bye,  gentlemen. 

(Goes  out  to  the  right.     Rosmer  takes  leave  of  him, 
and  shuts  tlie  door  behind  him.) 

Gylling.  What  do  you  think  of  that!  This  is  what 
has  become  of  the  brilliant  Ulric  Rosenhjelm! 

Rosmer.  Unfortunately;  I  have  known  it  a  long 
time. 

Gylling.  Yes,  it  was  pretty  well  known.  But  to  see 
it  with  one's  own  eyes!  Such  talent  rendered  useless  by 
moral  foulness — 

Rosmer.  Do  you  think  he  is  past  saving  ?  Would  it 
not  be  possible  to  raise  him  again  ? 

Gylling.  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  how  could  that  be 
managed  ? 


286  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Rosmer.  I  mean  by  going  to  work  in  a  forebearing — ■ 
kindly  way  with  him,  showing  confidence  in  him,  relying 
on  his  good  intentions — [a  kind  of  self-knowledge ] 

Gylling.     Then  you  do  rely  on  those  intentions  ? 

Rosmer.     I  would  gladly  do  so. 

Gylling.  In  that  case  he  might  perhaps  be  useful  to 
us.  The  brilliant  style  he  was  once  master  of — ;  his 
pitiless,  slashing  pen — ;  and  it  did  not  look  as  if  he  had 
any  very  friendly  disposition  towards  the  Radicals- 

Rosmer.  Do  you  mean  that  he  might  be  placed  in 
charge  of  the  new  paper? 

Gylling.  In  charge!  Heaven  preserve  us,  how  can 
you  think  of  such  a  thing!  No,  on  the  contrary,  he 
would  of  course  have  to  be  kept  in  the  background  until 
he  had  rehabilitated  himself.  He  would  have  to  apply 
himself  to  leading  a  decent  life, — in  any  case  to  be  care- 
ful and  to  avoid  public  scandal.  And  if  he  could  so  far 
conquer  himself,  and  if  he  could  be  induced  for  a  cer- 
tain time  to  lend  the  good  cause  his  bona  officio, — ;  ob- 
serving the  strictest  anonymity,  of  course 

(Mrs.  Rosmer  has  re-entered  in  the  meantime.) 

Rosmer.     Has  he  gone? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Yes. 

Gylling.  And  now  I  must  think  about  leaving  too. 
It  is  beginning  to  get  dark. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Won't  you  take  tea  with  us  ? 

Gylling.  No,  no,  thanks;  I  cannot. — Well,  my  dear 
friend,  I  won't  press  you  further  to-day.  You  must  turn 
it  over  in  your  own  mind 

Rosmer.  Will  you  be  at  home  to-morrow  morn- 
ing  ? 

Gylling.  To-morrow?  I'm  sorry  I  can't  say  for 
certain — for 


ROSMERSHOLM  287 

Rosmer.  Never  mind,  I'll  enquire  for  you  in  any 
case.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  I  want  to  have  a  long  talk 
with  you,  my  dear  Gylling 

Gylling.  You  mean  about  the  affair  of  the  County 
News  ? 

Rosmer.     About  that  and  other  things. 

Gylling  {shaking  his  hand).  You  will  be  welcome, 
my  dear  friend.  And  I  am  sure  you  and  I  will  soon 
agree  as  to  what  is  the  duty  of  a  good  and  well-disposed 
citizen  in  these  troublous  times.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Ros- 
mer!    Good-bye,  dear  friends. 

(Rosmer  and  Mrs.  Rosmer  accompany  him  into 
tlie  hall.  As  he  puts  on  his  overcoat,  loud  con- 
versation is  heard,  the  words  of  which  do  not  how- 
ever 'reach  the  audience.  Finally,  "Good-bye, 
good-bye,  good-bye,"  as  tJie  Rector  goes.  Ros- 
mer and  his  wife  re-enter  the  room.) 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  What  was  that  he  was  saying  as  I 
came  in?  I  understood  that  he  wanted  to  try  Rosen- 
hjelm  on  the  new  paper. 

Rosmer.  He  threw  it  out  casually  as  a  possibility. 
But  nothing  is  likely  to  come  of  it. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  No,  I  should  hope  not.  At  all  events 
I  have  done  my  best  that  nothing  shall  come  of  it. 

Rosmer.     You,  my  dear?     What  have  you  done? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Now  you  won't  be  vexed  with  me  for 
acting  on  my  own  responsibility,  will  you  ?  Such  good 
friends  as  we  are? 

Rosmer.  Of  course  not;  you  may  do  everything  you 
wish.     But  what  was  it? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  I  gave  Rosenhjelm  a  card  of  intro- 
duction to  Mortensgard. 

Rosmer,     You  did?    To  Mortensgird! 


288  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Yes,  I  scribbled  a  few  hurried 
words 

Rosmer.  But  you  heard  him  call  Mortensgard  an 
idiot  and  a  plebeian. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  We  needn't  pay  any  attention  to  that. 
When  a  man  has  fallen  so  low  as  Rosenhjelm,  he  plays 
the  gentleman.  He  thanked  me  too,  and  promised  to 
deliver  the  card. 

Rosmer.  Oh,  he  did  that?  But  perhaps  Gylling 
will  get  hold  of  him  to-morrow. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  If  he  has  already  compromised  him- 
self with  Mortensgard's  paper,  the  County  News  won't 
be  able  to  make  use  of  him. 

Rosmer.  And  then  it  will  come  out  that  it  was  we 
who  recommended  him. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  What  harm  can  that  do?  Haven't 
you  made  up  your  mind  to  have  it  out  to-morrow  ? 

Rosmer.  Yes,  that's  settled.  To-morrow  it  must  and 
shall  be  done.  But,  dear  me,  how  hard  it  is  nevertheless 
to  have  to  grieve  one's  faithful  friends — to  cause  them 
real  heartfelt  sorrow. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Is  that  all,  Rosmer?  Is  it  not 
something  that  survives  in  you,  without  your  know- 
ing it? 

Rosmer.  My  dear,  what  should  it  be  ?  Do  you  mean 
uncertainty  or  doubt? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Not  exactly  that. 

Rosmer.  No,  you  may  depend  upon  that.  I  feel  so 
free,  so  sure  of  myself.  (Sits  down  beside  her.)  You 
have  faithfully  helped  me.  My  former  self  is  dead.  I 
look  upon  it  as  one  looks  upon  a  corpse. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  Yes,  but  that  is  just  when  these 
white  horses  appear. 


ROSMERSHOLM  289 

Rosmer.     White  horses  ?     What  white  horses  ? 

(Madam  Helset  brings  in  the  tea-urn  and  puts  it  on 
the  table.) 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  What  was  it  you  told  me  once,  Madam 
Helset  ?  You  said  that  from  time  immemorial  a  strange 
thing  happened  here  whenever  one  of  the  family  died. 

Madam  Helset.  Yes,  it's  as  true  as  I'm  alive.  Then 
the  white  horse  comes. 

Rosmer.     Oh,  that  old  family  legend 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  In  it  comes  when  the  night  is  far  gone. 
Into  the  courtyard.  Through  closed  gates.  Neighs 
loudly.  Launches  out  with  its  hind  legs,  gallops  once 
round  and  then  out  again  and  away  at  full  speed. 

Madam  Helset.  YTes,  that's  how  it  is.  Both  my 
mother  and  my  grandmother  have  seen  it. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     And  you  too  ? 

Madam  Helset.  Oh,  I'm  not  so  sure  whether  I've 
seen  anything  myself.  I  don't  generally  believe  in  such 
things.  But  this  about  the  white  horse — I  do  believe  in 
that.  And  I  shall  believe  in  it  till  the  day  of  my  death. 
Well,  now  I'll  go  and (Goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Rosmer  (after  a  short  silence).  Do  you  mean  that  this 
can  be  applied  to  me  ? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  All  the  emancipated  people  I  have 
known — all  those  who  believe  themselves  to  be  emanci- 
pated— every  one  of  them  has  had  somewhere  or  other 
a  white  horse  like  this,  which  they  never  give  up  believing 
in. 

Rosmer.  And  complete  emancipation,  you  think, 
means 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  It  means  getting  rid  of  one's  white 
horses.     [We  must  have  light,  Rosmer.] 

Madam  Helset  [(in  the  doorway  to  the  right)]..  Here 
is  the  lamp,  ma'am. 


290  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

SECOND   ACT 

The  sitting-room  at  Johannes  Rosmer' s.     It  is  forenoon. 
(Rosmer  is  walking  about  the  room  and  putting  on  his 

overcoat.     Mrs.  Rosmer  is  brushing  his  hat,  which 

she  then  Jiands  to  him.) 

Rosmer.     To  think  that  I  could  have  been  so  cow- 
ardly, so  shy,  so  afraid  of  telling  them  everything  frankly. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Yes,  was  it  not  strange? 

Rosmer.     I  don't  understand  it  myself. 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     But  now  it  is  over.     There  now.     Go 
straight  in  to  the  Rector. 

Rosmer.     I'm  going  straight  in 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     And  then  come  back  as  soon  as  you 
can.     I'm  excited  to  hear  what  he  will  say. 

Rosmer.     Don't  be  too  impatient.     Good-bye  for  the 
present.     Good-bye! 

Mrs.  Rosmer.     Good-bye,  dear  Rosmer! 

(He  opens  the  door  to  the  hall.  Mrs.  Rosmer  goes 
out  with  him.  At  the  same  moment  Rector 
Gylling,  in  outdoor  clothes,  comes  into  the  hall.) 

Rosmer.     What!     Have  you  come  here? 

Gylling.     Yes,  I  have. 

Rosmer.     And  I  was  just  on  my  way  to  you. 

Gylling.     I  did  not  want  to  wait;   and  I  was  not  so 
lure  that  you  would  come ■ 

Rosmer.     Well,  take  off  your  coat. 

Gylling.     If  you  will  permit  me. 

(He  takes  off  his  overcoat  and  lays  it  on  a  chair. 
Rosmer  does  the  same.) 

Rosmer.     Is  there  anything  wrong  with  you  ?     You 
look  so  serious. 


ROSMERSHOLM  291 

Gtlling.  I  should  be  glad,  to  speak  to  you  in  private. 
Could  we  go  into  your  study? 

Mrs.  Rosmer.  It  is  not  tidy  yet.  Stay  here;  I  have 
to  go  out.  (Goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Rosmer.  What  is  it  then?  Has  Ulric  Sejerhjelm 
been  to  see  you  ? 

Gtlling.  No;  and  he's  not  likely  to  come  either. 
But  he  is  already  being  talked  about.  He  introduced 
himself  in  a  fine  fashion. 

Rosmer.     Well  ? 

Gtlling.  He  took  up  his  quarters  in  a  low  house, 
spent  the  evening  in  a  low  tavern — in  the  lowest  company 
of  course — and  drank  and  stood  treat  as  long  as  he  had 
any  money;  then  he  began  abusing  the  whole  company 
as  a  set  of  disreputable  blackguards — and  so  far  he  was 
quite  right; — whereupon  they  thrashed  him  and  pitched 
him  out  of  doors. 

Rosmer.     So  he  is  incorrigible. 

Gtlling.  He  had  pawned  the  overcoat  too;  but  I 
am  told  that  has  been  redeemed  for  him.  And  can  you 
guess  by  whom? 

Rosmer.     By  whom  then  ? 

Gtlling.  By  Mr.  Mortensgard.  Sejerhjelm's  first 
visit  was  to  the  "idiot"  and  "plebeian." 

Rosmer.     Rebecca  prophesied  that  yesterday. 

Gtlling.  Indeed.  And  that  brings  me  to  a  matter 
it  is  my  duty  to  warn  you  about,  for  our  old,  faithful 
friendship's  sake. 

Rosmer.     But,  my  dear  Gylling,  what  can  that  be? 

Gtlling.  It  is  this :  that  there  are  things  being  done 
in  this  house  independently  of  you  and  behind  your  back. 

Rosmer.     Who  is  doing  this  ? 

Gtlling.  Your  wife.  I  can  quite  understand  it. 
Ever  since   the  last  sad  years  of  Beata's  life  she  has 


292  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

been  accustomed  to  manage  things  here;  but  never- 
theless  

Rosmer.  My  dear  Gylling,  you  are  utterly  mistaken. 
Rebecca  hides  nothing  from  me.  She  tells  me  every- 
thing. 

Gylling.  Then  has  she  told  you  that  yesterday  she 
gave  Sejerhjelm  a  card  of  introduction  to  Mortensgard? 

Rosmer.     Yes,  of  course. 

Gylling.     She  has — !     And  what  do  you  say  to  that  ? 

Rosmer.  I  altogether  approve  of  what  Rebecca  has 
done. 

Gylling.  Are  you  mad  ?  You  approve  of  her  corre- 
sponding with  the  lowest  and  most  dangerous  opponent 
we  have  here? 

Rosmer.  I  will  tell  you  candidly.  Mortensgard's 
conduct  on  many  occasions  has  been  repulsive  to  you. 
But  I  can  no  longer  side  with  you  and  our  friends  on 
public  questions.  In  those  matters  and  in  many  others 
I  must  entirely  dissociate  myself  from  you. 

Gylling  (starting  back).  What  do  you  say!  You, 
you  will  dissociate  yourself  from  your  friends!  Go  over 
to  the  enemy's  camp!     But  that's  impossible! 

Rosmer.  I  am  not  thinking  of  taking  any  part  in  the 
conflicts  of  the  day.  I  have  a  horror  of  interfering  in 
all  this  hubbub,  of  which  I  do  not  know  the  ins  and  outs. 

Gylling.     But  what  are  you  going  to  do  then  ? 

Rosmer.  I  will  try  to  ennoble  the  work  of  emancipa- 
tion. Do  you  think  I  don't  see  all  the  foulness  that  de- 
velopment brings  with  it  and  gives  rise  to  in  its  course? 
That  is  what  I  want  to  oppose,  to  warn  people  against,  to 
dam  up,  to  confine,  so  that  the  stream  may  flow  pure  and 
clear 

Gylling.  Oh,  Rosmer,  what  a  confiding  man  you 
ore!     You  don't  know  what  elements  you  will  have  to 


ROSMERSHOLM  293 

deal  with.  But  when  was  it  that  you  entered  on  these 
paths  of  aberration? 

Rosmer.     I  call  it  comprehension. 

Gylling.     Call  it  what  you  will.     But  when,  I  ask  ? 

Rosmer.  It  goes  back  a  long  time.  I  believe  the 
foundation  was  laid  when  I  was  engaged  on  my  theologi- 
cal studies. 

Gylling.     And  yet  you  entered  the  Church  ? 

Rosmer.  Our  family  has  always  had  great  respect  for 
the  conventional. 

Gylling.  That  quality  appears  to  be  dying  out  in 
the  family. 

Rosmer.  I  think  such  things  always  die  out — sooner 
or  later — and  then  there  is  a  reaction  to  the  opposite. 

Gylling.  But  that  this  should  come  about  through 
you!  And  that  with  such  a  turn  of  mind  you  could  ac- 
cept the  position  of  a  clergyman 

Rosmer.  But  as  soon  as  I  was  perfectly  clear  I  re- 
signed. 

Gylling.     Perfectly  clear.     About  what? 

Rosmer.  I  can  no  longer  accept  this  mysticism.  I 
must  reject  the  whole  of  the  old  doctrine. 

Gylling.  An  apostate  then!  A  free-thinker!  An 
apostate  from  the  faith  of  your  fathers! 

Rosmer.  I  have  reasons  for  supposing  that  the  faith 
of  my  fathers  did  not  go  very  deep. 

Gylling.  So  you  are  an  apostate.  What  have  you 
now  to  fill  up  your  life? 

Rosmer.  I  will  continue  untiringly  to  investigate  and 
think.  I  will  try,  as  far  as  possible,  to  get  to  the  bot- 
tom of  things.     And  then  I  will  live.     Be  happy. 

Gylling.  Do  you  know  that  this  opens  an  abyss  of 
thoughts  in  my  mind  ? 

Rosmer.     I  don't  understand  you. 


294  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Gtlling.  Now  I  will  go  to  the  root  of  the  whole 
matter.  Will  you  be  frank  ?  Will  you  answer  my  ques- 
tions candidly? 

Rosmer.  Speak,  my  dear  Gylling,  ask  what  you  will. 
I  have  nothing  to  conceal. 

Gylling.  What  was  the  ultimate  reason  why  Beata 
put  an  end  to  her  life  ? 

Rosmer.  I  don't  understand  you.  Can  you  have 
any  uncertainty  on  the  subject  ?  And  can  one  ever  ask  for 
reasons  for  what  an  unhappy,  irresponsible  invalid  may  do? 

Gylling.  Are  you  certain  that  Beata  was  completely 
irresponsible  for  her  actions  ?  The  doctors,  at  any  rate, 
were  by  no  means  convinced  of  it. 

Rosmer.  If  the  doctors  had  ever  seen  her  as  I  have 
so  often  seen  her,  they  would  "have  had  no  doubts. 

Gylling.     I  had  no  doubts  either — then. 

Rosmer.  Unhappily  there  wasn't  the  smallest  room 
for  doubt.  I  have  told  you  of  her  unfortunate  frenzies 
of  passion,  which  she  expected  me  to  return.  Oh,  how 
they  terrified  me!  And  then  her  sudden  changes  of  mood; 
her  dumb,  consuming  hatred 

Gylling.     Hatred  ?     Of  whom  ? 

Rosmer.  Of  us,  who  were  about  herc  Of  me,  first 
and  foremost ■ 

Gylling.  And  I  have  to  tell  you  that  poor  unhappy 
Beata  died  of  her  love  for  you. 

Rosmer.     What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

Gylling.  In  her  last  year — when  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  could  not  bear  her  life  any  longer,  she  had  re- 
course to  me,  to  pour  forth  all  her  anguish — first,  because 
she  declared  that  you  were  on  the  road  to  perversion 

Rosmer.  But  I  don't  think  I  was  at  that  time.  In 
any  case  I  never  confided  to  her  my  doubts  and  my  in- 
ward conflicts. 


ROSMERSHOLM  295 

Gtlling.  That  proves  all  the  more  clearly  what  a 
wonderfully  true  intuition  a  deranged  person  may  have. 

Rosmer.     But  why  did  you  hide  this  from  me? 

Gylling.  I  did  not  want  to  torture  and  harass  you 
still  further  by  disclosing  these  accusations,  which  I  my- 
self did  not  believe  in  at  the  time. 

Rosmer.     But  now ? 

Gylling.  Ah,  now  my  eyes  are  opened  to  the  incred- 
ible— to  your  great  crime 

Rosmer.     Crime! 

Gylling.  Yes,  to  the  criminal  life  that  has  been  and 
is  being  led  in  your  house. 

Rosmer.     I  don't  understand  a  word  of  this. 

Gylling.  Sometimes  Beata  came  to  me,  weeping  and 
lamenting.  "Rosmer  no  longer  loves  me,"  she  said. 
"He  loves  Rebecca;   and  she  loves  him." 

Rosmer.     She  said  that! 

Gylling.  She  said  that.  And  that  of  course  made 
me  think  her  mad. 

Rosmer.     Yes,  you  must  have  thought  so. 

Gylling.  The  last  time  she  came  to  see  me,  she 
said :  "  Now  no  one  must  stand  in  the  way  of  Johannes 
and  his  happiness.  The  White  Horse  must  soon  come 
now."     I  did  not  understand  her. 

Rosmer.  Never  did  it  occur  to  me  that  her  diseased 
fancies  had  led  her  astray  in  that  direction.  My  poor 
unhappy  Beata. 

Gylling,     Hypocrite! 

Rosmer  (with  a  start).     What  do  you  say! 

Gylling.  Can  I  doubt  any  longer,  after  all  these 
revelations,  that  a  criminal  life  was  being  led  here — 
even  then  ? 

Rosmer.  Let  me  tell  you  that  if  any  other  man  but 
you  dared 


296  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Gtlling.  If  it  had  been  any  other  man  but  you,  it 
would  not  have  cut  me  to  the  heart  like  this.  But  you, 
Johannes  Rosmer — to  have  to  tear  you  out  of  my  mind 
with  a  single  wrench. 

Rosmer.  Tell  me  now:  you  did  not  at  the  time  be- 
lieve a  word  of  these  accusations  of  Beata's  ? 

Gtlling.  How  could  I  believe  such  things  of  a  man 
like  you — a  man  of  honour,  for  you  were  once  that. 

Rosmer.     But  now ? 

Gylling.  Have  you  not  confessed  that  you  have  long 
been  secretly  an  apostate  from  the  faith  of  your  fathers  ? 

Rosmer.  I  have  long  been  in  doubt  and  conflict. 
Now  I  see  clearly  where  I  stand;  that  is  the  truth.  But 
what  then  ? 

Gylling.  The  rest  I  can  surely  leave  you  to  say  to 
yourself. 

Rosmer.  No,  I  tell  you;  no;  I  cannot.  You  are 
bound  to  speak  out  what  you  mean  without  reserve. 

Gylling.  I  mean  that  there  cannot  be  any  vast  gulf, 
any  impassable  abyss  between  free  thought  and 

Rosmer.     And  what ? 

Gylling.     — and  free  love. 

Rosmer.  And  you  dare  say  this  to  me!  You  are  not 
ashamed  of  thinking  and  believing  this! 

Gylling.  I  don't  know  what  there  is  to  hinder  a 
man  when  he  has  once  disavowed  the  moral  command- 
ments. 

Rosmer.     Have  I  done  that  ? 

Gylling.  To  my  mind  faith  and  morality  cannot  be 
separated.  And  I  know  no  other  morality  than  our 
Christian  one. 

Rosmer.  And  I  know  no  Christian  morality:  I  know 
no  other  morality  than  that  I  have  within  me. 


ROSMERSHOLM  297 

Gtlling.  Private,  human  morality  is  but  a  feeble 
protection. 

Rosmer.  Oh,  this  boundless  fanaticism  that  has  pos- 
sessed you. 

Gylling.  Yes,  you  may  call  me  a  fanatic  in  that 
respect.  To  my  last  hour  I  shall  hate  and  fight  against 
these  fatal  tendencies  of  the  age.  They  have  brought 
strife  and  disruption  into  my  home — and  into  hundreds  of 
others  as  well.    They  have  embittered  my  life's  work 

Rosmer.  Political  controversies,  yes.  But  I  do  not 
mix  myself  up  with  those. 

Gylling.  One  thing  cannot  be  separated  from  the 
other.  And  that  apostacy  should  seize  you  too.  Should 
separate  us  so  irrevocably  from  each  other.  But  I  see  it, 
I  see  it; — this  case  of  yours — it  is  the  work  of  a  cunning 
and  remorseless  woman. 

Rosmer.     Not  another  word  about  her. 

Gylling.  Was  it  not  she  who  from  the  very  first 
brought  you  into  the  path  you  are  now  following  ? 

Rosmer.  Yes;  to  her  praise  be  it  said.  And  since 
then  we  have  faithfully  worked  together  like  two  com- 
rades. 

Gylling.  You  are  like  a  child  in  her  hands;  and 
you  don't  see  it. 

Rosmer.  I  am  happy  and  free;  I  can  live  my  own 
life. 

Gylling  (putting  on  his  coat).  Then  see  what  that 
life  will  be  like  when  you  are  cut  off  from  all  those  who 
have  hitherto  been  near  to  you. 

Rosmer.     They  cannot  all  be  such  fanatics  as  you. 

Gylling.     You  will  soon  find  out  about  that. 

(He  gives  a  curt  nod  and  goes  out  through  the  hall.) 
(Miss  Dankert  enters  slwrtly  afterwards  from  the 
right.) 


298  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Miss  Dankert.     I  saw  him  go  out. 

Rosmer.     He  will  never  come  back. 

Miss  Dankert.     You  have  told  him  everything. 

Rosmer.     Yes. 

Miss  Dankert.     And  then? 

Rosmer.     Complete  rupture.     Irremediable 

Miss  Dankert.  Not  irremediable,  Rosmer.  Just 
wait.     You  shall  see. 

Rosmer.     Our  old  relations  can  never  be  restored. 

Miss  Dankert.  Well,  believe  me;  that  is  best  for 
you. 

Rosmer.  Yes,  I  know  you  think  so.  But  such  old 
habits  are  deeply  rooted  in  me. 

Miss  Dankert.  Much  too  deeply.  You  would  never 
have  been  free  if  that  circle  had  been  allowed  to  go  on 
exercising  its  influence  on  you. 

Rosmer.  I  am  bound  to  tell  you  this.  Now  that  I 
have  openly  withdrawn  from  them,  they  will  cease  to 
regard  our  relationship  as  what  it  is. 

Miss  Dankert.     Our  relationship ! 

Rosmer.  Purity  of  life  is  not  to  be  looked  for  in 
apostates,  he  said. 

Miss  Dankert.     Oh,  these  madmen! 

Rosmer.     What  is  to  be  done  ? 

Miss  Dankert.     Do  you  wish  me  to  leave  here  ? 

Rosmer.     Do  I  wish  that! 

Miss  Dankert.  Well,  it  is  not  necessary  on  my  ac- 
count. 

Rosmer.  No,  it's  not,  is  it,  Rebecca  ?  Your  spirit  is 
so  proud  and  free.  Your  own  consciousness  is  sufficient 
to  you. 

Miss  Dankert.  Yes,  it  is.  Why  should  we  flinch 
before  the  low  and  vile  thoughts  of  some  people  ?     Why 


ROSMERSHOLM  299 

should  we  make  ourselves  unhappy  ?     For  we  should  be 
so 

Rosmer.     Yes,  yes. 

Miss  Dankert.  No,  we  shall  keep  together  in  good 
comradeship  and  help  and  support  one  another  as  well 
as  we  can.     But  look  there ! 

Rosmer  (with  a  cry). 

(Rector  Gylling  has  opened  the  door  at  the  back.  ) 

Gylling.  Well,  I  don't  know  whether  I  may  come 
in  again. 

Rosmer.     Pray  come  in. 
(The  Rector  comes  in,  keeping  his  overcoat  on.) 

Gtlling.  What  is  past  cannot  be  altered;  but  now 
listen,  Rosmer 

Rosmer.     I'm  listening,  I'm  listening 

Gylling.  Is  there  any  necessity  for  your  sad  apos- 
tacy  to  be  proclaimed  over  the  whole  country? 

Rosmer.  I  must  and  will  get  out  of  the  false  position 
I  have  been  in  so  long.     My  book  is  ready. 

Gylling.  And  you  don't  consider  what  consequences 
this  will  have  for  you  ?  The  whole  conservative  press 
will  attack  you  and  your  book 

Miss  Dankert.  But  how  can  you  tell  that,  Rector? 
You  don't  know  the  book,  do  you  ? 

Gylling.  H'm,  I  suppose  you  will  accuse  us  of  fa- 
naticism and  persecution  of  those  who  differ  from  us. 
But  this  cannot  be  avoided  in  a  period  of  agitation  like 
ours.  It  is  an  absolute  duty  for  every  good  citizen  who 
has  the  power  to  do  it,  to  root  up  all  the  dangerous  weeds, 
whenever  and  wherever  they  may  show  themselves. 

Rosmer.  Well,  well;  then  I  know  what  to  be  pre- 
pared for. 

Gylling.  No,  you  don't  know.  It  will  be  some- 
thing far  more   violent  than  you   think.     Therefore   I 


300  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

beg  you,  Rosmer — hold  your  hand;    do  so — you,  the 
quiet,  retiring  enquirer; — this  is  not  suited  to  you. 

Rosmer.     But  can  you  ask  me  to  be  so  cowardly! 

Gylling.     It    is    your    duty    to    your    environment,      z 
Remember  the  prominent  position  your  family  has  oc- 
cupied  for  so  long.     The  respect  you  yourself   enjoy.      £ 
You  will  make  many  unstable  people  irresolute,  vacil-     ^ 
lating,  unhappy.  f} 

Rosmer.     Do  you  think  so  ?  u 

Gylling.     You  surely  can't  have  a  doubt  of  it  your-     > 
self?  j 

Rosmer.  But  I  cannot  stand  looking  on  for  ever. 
All  around,  in  every  department  of  life,  a  luxuriant  ger- 
mination is  going  on.  And  it  is  time  that  I  too  began  to 
live.     I  must  and  will  be  happ}T  in  this  world. 

Gylling.  I  can  guess  where  this  hunt  for  happiness 
is  derived  from.     Don't  you  seek  it  too,  Miss  Dankert  ? 

Miss  Dankert.  It  is  in  the  air.  It  is  one  of  the 
greatest  things  about  the  new  age  that  we  dare  openly 
proclaim  happiness  as  our  end  in  life. 

Gylling.     You  do  so? 

Miss  Dankert.     Certainly  I  do. 

Gylling.  Is  it  principles  of  this  kind  that  are  preached 
in  your  new  book? 

Rosmer.     Yes,  if  it  is  rightly  understood. 

Gylling.  Poor  man — you,  with  your  conscience  bur- 
dened with  guilt — you  think  you  can  find  happiness  by 
those  paths. 

Miss  Dankert.  Burdened  with  guilt!  What  does 
that  mean? 

Rosmer.     I  feel  that  I  am  free  and  pure. 

Gylling.  You  believe  that  perhaps.  But  you  are 
mistaken.     You  have  betrayed  yourself.     And  unhappy 


ROSMERSHOLM  301 

Beata  gave  you  her  life  as  a  sacrifice.     You  are  founding 
your  happiness  on  water.     Remember  the  mill-pond. 

(He  goes.) 

Rosmer.     But  this  is  not  true,  Rebecca. 

Miss  Dankert.     I  know  that,  of  course. 

Rosmer.     But   nevertheless — well,    it   must   be    said 
some  time  or  other.     Did  I  really  love  you  even  then? 

Miss  Dankert.     Love!     You,  Rosmer! 

Rosmer.     Will  you  go  away  now? 

Miss    Dankert    (giving   him   her   Jiand).     No,    my 
friend,  now  I  stay  with  you. 

Rosmer.     Thanks,  Rebecca! 


THIRD   ACT 


Johannes  Rosmer's  study.  A  door  at  the  bach;  also 
on  the  left.  Bookcases  and  shelves  on  the  walls.  A 
window  on  the  right,  and  before  it  a  writing-table, 
covered  with  books  and  papers. — Old-fashioned  fur- 
niture; a  table,  with  table-cloth,  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

(Johannes  Rosmer  is  sitting  in  a  high-backed  chair  at 
the  writing-table,  reading  a  pamphlet,  the  pages  of 
which  he  cuts  as  lie  reads.  There  is  a  knock  at  the 
door  on  tlie  left.) 

Rosmer  (without  turning.)     Pray  come  in. 

(Miss  West  enters  in  a  morning  gown,  with  a  news- 
paper in  her  hand.) 
Miss  West.     Good  morning;. 

Rosmer   (reading).     Good  morning,  dear.     Is  there 
anything  you  want  ? 

Miss  West.     Here  is  to-day's  County  News. 
Rosmer  (turning).     Is  there  anything  in  it? 


802  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Miss  West.     Yes,  there  is.       (Gives  him  the  paper.") 

Rosmer.     Already.     (Reads.)     Now  let  us  see. 

Miss  West  (behind  him,  leaning  over  the  back  of  the 
chair,  also  reads).     They  wanted  to  be  the  first 

Rosmer.  — to  weaken  the  effect,  yes. — "We  can- 
not sufficiently  express  our  contempt" — Contempt? — 
"for  renegades  who  have  lain  in  hiding  while  the  situa- 
tion remained  uncertain  " — Gylling  never  wrote  that ■ 

Miss  West.     Who  knows? 

Rosmer.  No,  no.  "  Renegades  .  .  .  but  who  march 
over  with  colours  flying  as  soon  as  victory  seems  as- 
sured." And  they  can  write  such  things,  that  they  them- 
selves don't  believe.  "When  confused  visionaries  with 
no  will  of  their  own  fall  into  the  hands  of  calculating 
intriguers" — I  won't  read  any  more.  (Rises.)  At  any 
rate  not  now. 

Miss  West.     Will  you  answer  it? 

Rosmer.  Oh,  what  is  the  use  ?  And  my  name  is  not 
actually  mentioned  either. 

Miss  West.  But  it  will  soon  get  about  that  it  is 
aimed  at  you.  The  calculating  intriguer  is  of  course 
myself. 

Rosmer  (walking  nervously  about).  These  days  of 
denunciation — ah,  it  is  indeed  a  great  mission  to  make 
an  end  of  them. 

(Madam  Helset  opens  the  door  on  tlie  left.) 

Miss  West.     What  is  it,  Madam  Helset? 

Madam  Helset.  It's  that  Mortensgard,  who'd  like 
to  speak  to  Mr.  Rosmer. 

Rosmer.     Mortensgard  ?     What  can  he  want  ? 

Miss  West.     You'll  let  him  come  in,  won't  you  ? 

Rosmer  (to  Madam  Helset).     Yes,  let  him  come  in. 
(Madam  Helset  opens  the  door  to  Mortensgard^ 
closes  it  behind  him  and  goes.) 


ROSMERSHOLM  303 

MortensgArd.  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  stood  before 
you,  Pastor. 

Rosmer.  Yes,  it  is  years  ago.  I  have  often  asked 
myself  whether  I  did  not  act  too  harshly  at  that  time. 

MortensgArd.     Do  you  say  that,  Pastor? 

Rosmer.  Well,  you  have  found  another  position, 
with  which  I  am  sure  you  feel  more  satisfied. 

MortensgArd.     Oh  yes,  in  a  way. 

Rosmer.  Have  you  anything  in  particular  to  say  to 
me? 

MortensgArd.  First  I  think  I  ought  to  thank  you 
for  the  card  Mr.  Hekfeldt  brought  me. 

Rosmer.     You  may  thank  Miss  West  for  that. 

MortensgArd.     Of  course.     Miss  West  also. 

Miss  West.     Can  you  make  use  of  him? 

MortensgArd.     Unhappily,  I  think  it  is  too  late. 

Rosmer.     Do  you  think  so  ? 

MortensgArd.  He  is  not  abreast  of  the  times; 
stands  so  strangely  outside  what  is  going  on.  Looks 
upon  things  with  eyes  that  may  have  been  radical  enough 
twenty  years  ago 

Rosmer.  Yes,  they  were. — Tell  me,  have  you  read 
to-day's  County  News? 

MortensgArd.     No,  not  yet. 

Rosmer.  Don't  say  that,  Mr.  Mortensgard.  I  am 
sure  you  have  read  it. 

MortensgArd.  Well  yes,  I've  glanced  at  it — here 
and  there. 

Rosmer.  Then  you  must  have  seen  the  leading  ar- 
ticle ? 

MortensgArd.     Yes,  it  struck  me  as  rather  strange. 

Rosmer.    Did  you  understand  whom  it  was  meant  for  ? 

MortensgArd.  I  don't  think  I  could  believe  it  my- 
self. 


304  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rosmer.     No,  no. 

Mortensgard.  So  there  is  something  wrong  between 
you  and  the  other  gentlemen  ? 

Rosmer.  I  have  left  that  circle.  I  am  going  to  take 
up  a  position  of  my  own. 

Mortensgard.  So  you  have  left  them,  Pastor? 
Really  ?     I  didn't  expect  that. 

Miss  West.  It  is  a  step  that  has  been  long  prepared, 
Mr.  Mortensgard. 

Mortensgard.  Is  it  so  ?  Must  say,  I  didn't  expect 
it.     Are  you  going  to  reply  to  this  attack,  Pastor? 

Rosmer.  I  hardly  think  so.  I  so  cordially  dislike 
these  squabbles  between  man  and  man. 

Mortensgard.  But  if  it  should  be  necessary — for 
perhaps  there  may  be  more  to -come 

Rosmer.     Do  you  think  so  ? 

Mortensgard.  It  is  their  usual  way.  And  if  you 
should  find  it  difficult  to  get  anything  into  the  County 
News,  my  paper  is  open  to  you.  It  would  be  a  great 
honour  to  us. 

Rosmer.  Thanks.  I  may  perhaps  avail  myself  of 
your  offer.  Not  in  this  connection.  But  there  are  other 
subjects  that  I  wish  to  deal  with. 

Mortensgard.  Whatever  you  like,  Pastor.  The 
more  the  better.  It  will  be  an  incalculable  gain  to  the 
cause  of  progress  throughout  the  country,  if  a  man  like 
you,  a  Churchman,  takes  our  side. 

Rosmer.  But  look  here;  I  must  first  tell  you  that  I 
am  no  longer  a  Churchman. 

Mortensgard.  Of  course,  I  know  that;  but  your 
having  resigned  your  living  makes  no  difference. 

Rosmer.  I  don't  mean  that  either.  But  the  fact  is 
that  I  no  longer  hold  the  faith  of  the  Church. 

Mortensgard.     You  don't  hold — ?    You! 


ROSMERSHOLM  305 

Rosmer.  No.  I  have  entirely  broken  with  everything 
of  that  sort. 

MortensgIrd.  I  should  advise  you  to  keep  that  to 
yourself,  Mr.  Rosmer. 

Rosmer.     You  give  me  that  advice? 

Miss  West.  You  are  at  no  pains  to  conceal  your 
own  opinions. 

Mortensgard.  It  would  be  of  little  use.  A  man  who 
has  once  been  so  incautious — so  unfortunate,  as  I 

Rosmer.  Then  do  you  not  put  the  truth  before  every- 
thing? 

Mortensgard.  I  put  my  ends  before  everything. 
I  have  continued  to  be  a  teacher  of  the  people;  only  in 
another  way.  What  brought  me  to  my  fall  was  want 
and  lack  of  knowledge.  Now  I  wish  to  help  as  many 
as  possible  on  the  way  to  enlightenment  and  better  cir- 
cumstances. And  this  can  only  be  done  on  the  path  of 
freedom. 

Rosmer.     Yes,  there  we  are  quite  agreed. 

Mortensgard.  In  this  way  I  am  redeeming  my 
offence  against  society.  For  myself  I  have  no  hope  of 
any  gain.     For  I  am  civilly  dead,  as  you  know. 


Ill 
FROM  THE  FIRST  ACT 

Madam  Helset.     Yes,  he  said  his  name  was  Uldric 

Rosmer.     Ulric  ? 

Madam  Helset.  Yes,  and  then  there  was  something 
more.  I  thought  it  sounded  like  Hetmand  or  something 
of  the  sort. 


306  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rosmer  (to  Gylling).  That  unfortunate  Ulric  Het« 
man! 

Gylling.  That  black  sheep  Ulric  Hetrnan  ?  Then 
he  is  still  alive. 

Rosmer.     Ask  him  to  come  in,  Madam  Helset. 
Madam  Helset.     Oh,  very  well.  (She  goes  out.) 

Gylling.  Are  you  really  going  to  let  such  a  man  into 
your  house? 

Rosmer.  I  knew  him  a  little  in  the  days  of  his  pros- 
perity. 

Gylling.  When  last  I  heard  of  him,  he  was  in  the 
House  of  Correction. 

(Madam  Helset  opens  the  door  on  the  right  for 

Ulric  Hetman,  and  then  withdraws,  shutting  the 

door  behind  him.     He  is  a  handsome  man,  with 

hair  and  beard  streaked  with  grey.     He  is  dressed 

like  a  common  tramp;  no  overcoat;  worn-out  shoes; 

no  shirt  visible.     He  wears  an  old  pair  of  black 

gloves,  and  carries  a  soft,  greasy  bowler  hat  under 

his  arm  and  a  walking-stick  in  his  hand.) 

Ulric  Hetman  (hesitates  at  first,  then  goes  quickly  up 

to  the  Rector,  and  holds  out  his  hand).     How  are  you, 

Rosmer! 

Gylling.     Excuse  me 

Hetman.  Didn't  expect  to  see  me  again  in  these 
parts,  did  you  ? 

Gylling.     Excuse  me —     (Pointing.)     There 

Hetman  (turns).  Right.  There  he  is.  How  are  you, 
Rosmer:1  I  could  not  pass  by  Rosmersholm  without 
paying  yot?  a  visit. 

Rosmer.     Travellers  are  always  welcome  with  us. 
Hetman,     I  had   no   card   on  me.     But  I  hope  the 
elderly   lad}    I   met    outside   has   duly   announced    me. 


ROSMERSHOLM  307 

Well,  that's  all  right.  (Bows  to  Rebecca.)  Ah,  Mrs. 
Rosmer,  of  course. 

Rosmer.     Miss  West. 

Hetman.  A  near  relation,  no  doubt.  And  there — 
(Pointing  to  the  Rector.)     A  brother  of  the  cloth,  I  see. 

Rosmer.     Rector  Gylling. 

Hetman.  Gylling.  Gylling?  Wait  a  bit;  weren't  you 
a  student  of  philology  ? 

Gylling.     Of  course  I  was. 

Hetman.     Why  Donnerwetter,  then  I  knew  you! 

Gylling.     Pardon  me 

Hetman.     Weren't  you 

Gylling.     Pardon  me 


Hetman.  — one  of  those  champions  of  morality  that 
got  me  expelled  from  the  Students'  Club  ? 

Gylling.  Very  likely.  But  I  disclaim  any  closer  ac- 
quaintanceship. 

Hetman.  Well,  well;  nach  Belieben,  Herr  Rector.  It's 
all  one  to  me.  Ulric  Hetman  remains  the  man  he  is  for 
all  that. 

Rebecca.  You  are  on  your  way  into  town,  Mr.  Het- 
man? 

Hetman.  Yes,  gracious  lady,  I  am.  I  should  be  so 
Unspeakably  reluctant  to  lose  anything  of  the  respect  of 
a  young,  pretty,  amiable  and  charming  lady.  But  un- 
happily— I  am  forced  to  confess  it — as  yet  I  do  not  know 
this  part  of  the  country. 

Gylling.  Indeed.  But  you  have  roamed  a  good 
deal  about  other  parts  of  the  country,  from  what  I  have 
heard. 

Hetman  (gruffly) .  That  is  so,  Herr  Professor.  I  have 
undertaken  fairly  extensive  journeys.  (To  Rosmer.) 
But  now  you  shall  hear  my  plan.  I  have  decided  to  give 
a  series  of  lectures  throughout  the  country.     And  I  am 


308  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

thinking  of  making  this  my  starting-point,  although — I 
suppose  my  name  is  not  very  familiar  in  these  parts? 

Rosmer.     No,  I  don't  think  so. 

Hetman.  Oh  no,  it  wasn't  to  be  expected  of  the  in- 
habitants of  such  a  hole-and-corner  place.  (To  Gyl- 
ling.)  But  tell  me,  Heir  Inspector — unter  uns — have 
you  a  tolerably  decent,  reputable,  and  commodious  Pub- 
lic Hall  in  your  honoured  city  ? 

Gylling.  The  hall  of  the  Workmen's  Society  is  the 
largest. 

Hetman.  And  has  the  Herr  Docent  any  official  in- 
fluence in  this  doubtless  most  beneficent  Society? 

Gylling.     I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

Rebecca  (to  Hetman).  You  should  apply  to  Peter 
Mortensgard. 

Hetman.  Pardon,  madame — what  sort  of  an  idiot  is 
he? 

Rosmer.     What  makes  you  take  him  for  an  idiot? 

Hetman.  Can't  one  tell  at  once  by  the  name  that  he 
is  a  plebeian  ? 

Gylling.     I  didn't  expect  that  answer. 

Hetman.  Perhaps  the  Herr  Professor  thought  that 
Ulric  Hetman  was  ready  to  demean  himself  with  anyone 
you  please?  But  one  has  to  conquer  one's  antipathy 
when  one  stands  at  a  turning-point  in  one's  career.  I 
will  approach  this  individual,  will  open  negotiations 

Rosmer.  Are  you  really  and  seriously  standing  at  a 
turning-point  ? 

Hetman.  Seriously,  Herr  Pastor?  Stand  he  where 
he  may,  Ulric  Hetman  always  stands  seriously.  Now  it 
is  decided.  One  of  these  days  I  shall  emerge  from  my 
somewhat  unnoticed  and  unappreciated  existence.  The 
series  of  lectures  that  I  am  about  to  give — that  is  to  un- 
ravel my  life's  greatest  and  newest  idea. 


ROSMERSHOLM  309 

Rebecca.  What  idea  is  that,  Mr.  Hetman  ?  Oh,  tell 
us  that. 

Hetman.  Well,  here,  in  a  confidential  circle  of  more 
or  less  close  acquaintances,  there  is  nothing  to  conceal. 
I  will  open  my  long-contemplated  war  against  all  the 
landowners  in  the  country. 

Gylling.  Against  the  landowners  ?  Against  the  peas- 
antry then? 

Hetman.  Certainly,  Herr  Professor.  Are  you  with 
me? 

Gylling.  I  am  with  you  in  so  far  as  I  am  already  at 
enmity  with  the  Radical  majority 

Hetman.  Bosh  about  majorities  and  such  things  1 
It's  the  peasants  in  general  that  I'm  at  war  with.  Both 
the  great  and  the  small.  Both  the  Radicals  and  the 
idiots 

Gylling.     But  allow  me,  Mr.  ;    you  can't  do 

things  without  any  party  point  of  view  whatever 

Hetman.  Now  listen  to  me.  And  follow  me  carefully; 
then  perhaps  you  will  be  able  to  understand.  Suppose 
now  I  associate  myself  with  three  or  four  capitalists  in 
town.  We  establish  a  large  factory  for  the  preparation 
of  some  product  or  other,  which  has  not  yet  been  dis- 
covered. 

Gylling.     But  where  does  this  take  us  ? 

Hetman.  Patience,  Herr  Professor.  In  the  prepara- 
tion of  this  product  we  require  all  the  oxygen  that  is  con- 
tained in  or  brought  to  the  atmosphere  of  the  county 
— or  we  require  all  the  carbon  in  the  air.  We — I  and 
the  other  two  or  three  capitalists  might  be  using  it  to 
make  diamonds  of.  But  in  both  «ases  the  air  of  the 
whole  county  would  be  unserviceable  for  men  and  other 
animals  and  for  everything  organic.  Everyone  of  them 
would  have  to  buy  his  portion  of  vital  air  from  us — per- 


310  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

haps  at  an  exorbitant  price.  If  not — heraus!  What  do 
you  say  to  that? 

Gylling.  I  don't  think  the  authorities  here  would 
permit  such  an  industry. 

Hetman.  I  don't  think  so  either,  honoured  Sir.  Nor 
do  I  think  they  would  permit  it  if  our  little  syndicate 
proposed  to  use  the  river  or  the  fiord  in  such  a  way  that 
no  fish  could  swim  there  and  no  craft  float.  (Coming 
nearer.)     Or  perhaps  you  don't  agree  with  me  there  ? 

Gylling  (drawing  back  a  step).  Well,  well,  well!  Of 
course  I  agree. 

Hetman.  I  have  a  faint  suspicion  that  you  think  I'm 
suffering  from  some  form  of  mental  disease  or  other. 
But  that  is  an  error  for  the  moment.  I  have  only  been 
trying  to  emphasise  the  fact  that  we  all  agree  that  the  air 
and  water  of  our  planet  are  common  property  to  every- 
body. But  when  the  solid  earth  is  in  question — the 
ground  under  our  feet,  that  no  one  can  do  without,  well, 
das  ist  was  Anderes!  Nobody  breathes  a  word  against 
the  solid  earth  of  the  globe  being  in  the  hands  of  a  com- 
paratively small  band  of  robbers,  who  have  made  use  of 
it  for  centuries,  who  are  making  use  of  it  to-day,  and  who 
propose  to  make  use  of  it  for  all  futurity.  You  see, 
honoured  Sirs — and  you,  fair  lady,  that  is  the  obscure 
matter  of  vital  importance  that  I  wish  to  throw  light 
upon. 

Gylling.  Doubt  if  it  will  be  a  profitable  undertak- 
ing. 

Hetman.  What  do  I  care  for  profit  ?  It  is  the  idea 
— my  greatest  and  my  newest  idea,  that  matters  to  me. 
It  struck  me  in  a  flash  that  mankind's  sense  of  justice  is 
suffering  from  partial  insanity.  That  is  the  heart  of  the 
matter.  This  idea  has  come  to  me  from  above — or  from 
below — or  from  the  obscure  inscrutable  powers.     It  has 


ROSMERSHOLM  Sll 

come  to  me  through  an  inspiration,  I  say.  Therefore  it 
is  mine  alone.  And  now  I  am  going  into  the  town  to 
present  it  to  mankind. 

Rebecca.  But  excuse  me,  Mr.  Hetman — that  idea  is 
not  altogether  new. 

Hetman  {with  a  start) .  What  do  you  say — fair  lady  ? 
My  idea  is  not  new! 

Rebecca.  I  am  afraid,  not  altogether.  We  were  just 
reading  a  book  this  winter  that  deals  with  something 
similar. 

Hetman  (to  Rosmer)  .    Does  this  lady  speak  the  truth  ? 

Rosmer.     Yes,  of  course. 

Hetman.  And  in  this  book  there  is  that  about  the 
land  and ? 

Rosmer.     That  is  what  the  book  turns  upon. 

Hetman  (pale  and  tottering).  The  meeting  will — 
kindly — allow  me  to — to  sit  down. 

(He  sinks  into  an  easy  chair  and  sits  leaning  for- 
ward, with  his  hands  on  his  knees) 

Rebecca.  Can't  I  fetch  you  something  ?  What  can 
I ? 

Hetman  (gazing  before  him).  Too  late.  I  came  too 
late.     This  time  again.     Always  too  late. 

Gylling.  That  doesn't  really  make  any  difference. 
I'm  sure  it  will  be  quite  new  to  most  of  the  people  about 
here. 

Hetman  (with  a  look  of  misery) .  How  can  it  help  me 
or  cheer  me  if  the  whole  world  thought  it  was  new,  now 
that  I  know  myself  that  it  is  not? 

Rebecca.     Oh,  how  I  wish  I  had  said  nothing. 

Hetman  (rising).  Fair  lady — it  was  a  hard  blow 
that  your  love  of  truth  dealt  me.  I  had  treasured  that 
idea,  brooded  over  it  with  jealous  affection,  felt  it  grow, 
thought  that  I  should  never  have  the  heart  to  let  it  go 


312  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

from  me.  And  now,  when  I  let  it  go,  I  am  too  late. 
This  time  again.  Well,  well,  well!  No  tears  of  sympa- 
thy, ladies  and  gentlemen.  I  submit  to  no  pity.  De- 
serve none  either.  Perhaps  there  is  a  just  Nemesis  in 
this.  Perhaps  there  has  been  something  or  other  in  my 
way  of  living 

Rosmer.     Yes,  don't  you  think  so  yourself? 

Hetman.  I  will  put  on  a  new  man.  And  then  I  will 
get  up  one  or  two  evening  entertainments.  A  little  dec- 
lamation and  singing  and  so  on.  (To  Gylling.)  Is 
there  such  a  thing  as  a  Temperance  Society  in  the  town  ? 
A  Total  Abstinence  Society?     I  need  scarcely  ask. 

Gylling.     Yes.     I  am  the  president. 

Hetman.  No,  really?  I  shouldn't  have  thought  it. 
Well,  it  is  by  no  means  impossible  that  I  may  come  to 
you  and  enrol  myself  as  a  member  for  a  week. 

Gylling.  Excuse  me,  but  we  don't  receive  members 
by  the  week. 

Hetman.  A  la  bonne  heure.  Ulric  Hetman  has  never 
forced  himself  into  that  sort  of  Society.  (Turns.)  But 
I  must  not  prolong  my  visit  in  this  pleasant  house.  I 
must  be  on  my  way  to  the  town  and  select  a  suitable 
lodging.     I  presume  there  is  a  decent  hotel  in  the  place. 

Rebecca.     Mayn't  I  offer  you  anything  before  you 
go? 

Hetman.     Of  what  sort,  gracious  lady? 

Rebecca.     A  cup  of  tea,  or 

Hetman.  I  thank  my  bountiful  hostess  many  times — 
but  I  am  always  loath  to  trespass  on  private  hospitality. 
(Bows.)  Good-bye,  gentlefolks  all!  (Goes  toward  the 
door,  but  turns  again.)  Oh,  by  the  way — .  Pastor  Ros- 
mer, for  the  sake  of  our  ancient  friendship,  will  you  do 
your  old  friend  a  small  service? 

Rosmer.     Yes,  gladly.     What  is  it? 


ROSMERSHOLM  313 

Hetman.  You  see,  I  am  travelling  on  foot  at  present. 
My  wardrobe  is  being  sent  after  me.  Could  you  lend 
me  a  starched  shirt — with  cuffs — for  a  day  or  two? 

Rosmer.     Certainly.     Is  there  nothing  else? 

Hetman.  Well,  do  you  know — perhaps  you  could 
spare  me  an  oldish,  well-worn  overcoat. 

Rosmer.     Oh  yes;   certainly  I  can. 

Hetman.  And  perhaps  a  pair  of  winter  boots.  I 
have  been  so  imprudent  as  only  to  bring  these  light  spring 
shoes  with  me. 

Rosmer.  That  we  can  manage  too.  As  soon  as  you 
let  us  know  your  address,  we  will  send  the  things  in. 

Hetman.  Not  on  any  account.  So  much  trouble.  I 
will  take  the  bagatelles  with  me. 

Rosmer.     As  you  please.     Come  here  with  me  then. 

Rebecca.  Let  me  go.  Madam  Helset  and  I  will  see 
to  it.  (Goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Rosmer.     Is  there  nothing  else  I  can  do  for  you  ? 

Hetman.  Upon  my  word,  I  know  of  nothing  more. 
Well,  yes,  damn  it — now  that  I  think  of  it — do  you  hap- 
pen to  have  eight  crowns  in  your  pocket  ? 

Rosmer.  Let  me  see.  (Opens  his  purse.)  Here  is 
a  ten-crown  note. 

Hetman.  Well,  well,  never  mind!  I  can  take  it.  I 
can  always  get  it  changed  in  the  town.  Thanks  in  the 
meantime.  Remember  it  was  ten  crowns  you  lent  me. 
Farewell,  respected  Sirs. 

(Goes  out  to  the  right.     Rosmer  takes  leave  of  him, 
and  shuts  the  door  behind  him.) 

Gylling.  Merciful  Heaven — so  that  is  the  once  brill- 
iant Ulric  Hetman! 

Rosmer.     Step  by  step  he  must  have  gone  down. 

Gylling.  How  much  people  thought  of  him!  The 
lion  of  the  capital, — in  spite  of  all  the  excesses  he  was 


314  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

guilty  of.  But  then  came  his  notorious  book.  And  that 
broke  him. 

Rosmer.     Do  you  think  he  is  past  saving  ? 

Gylling.     He  ? 

Rosmer.     Would  it  not  be  possible  to  raise  him  again  ? 

Gylling.  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  how  could  that  be 
managed  ? 

Rosmer.  I  mean  by  going  to  work  in  a  forbearing 
— kindly  way;  showing  confidence  in  him;  relying  on 
his  good  intentions.  You  could  see  that  he  showed  a 
kind  of  self-knowledge. 

Gylling.     Do  you  rely  on  the  moods  of  such  a  man  ? 

Rosmer.     I  would  gladly  do  so. 

Gylling.  Ah,  Rosmer,  you  always  had  hope,  when 
nobody  else  had. 

Madam  Helset.  I  suppose  I  can  take  away  the  sup- 
per things,  Miss? 

Rebecca.     Yes,  please. 

Madam  Helset  (clearing  aivay).  It  was  very  early 
for  the  Rector  to  go  this  evening. 

Rebecca.     I  think  we  shall  see  him  again  to-morrow. 

Madam  Helset.  That  you  won't.  There's  bad 
weather  brewing. 

Rebecca  (putting  her  sewing  in  its  basket).  That's 
good.  Then  perhaps  I  too  shall  have  a  chance  of  seeing 
white  horses  at  Rosmersholm. 


FROM  THE   SECOND   ACT 

Mortensgard.  That  I  don't  doubt.  But  it  is  too 
late  now.     I  am  branded  once  for  all — branded  for  life. 

Rosmer.  I  did  not  think  you  still  took  that  affair  so 
much  to  heart 


ROSMERSHOLM  313 

Mortensgard.  Because  I  am  now  fairly  well  off,  do 
you  mean?  Much  better  off  than  if  I  had  kept  my 
position  at  the  school  ?  Yes,  that  is  true.  I  am.  But 
then  think  of  my  peculiar  situation.  A  new  age  has  come 
over  the  country.  I  too  might  have  risen  to  anything 
— like  most  of  the  others.  But — all  doors  were  closed 
to  me.  The  men  I  have  fought  for,  and  who  owe  it  to  me 
that  they  have  risen  to  power  and  honour — they  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  me.  They  dare  not  for  their 
own  sake. 

Rosmer.  Do  you  think  then  that  cowardice  extends 
even  to  the  most  powerful  ? 

Mortensgard.  It  is  not  cowardice,  Pastor  Rosmer. 
These  people  can't  set  aside  hypocrisy.  If  they  break 
with  hypocrisy,  their  fall  is  at  hand.  Oh  yes,  you  may 
perhaps  come  to  feel  the  smart  of  it  yourself  now,  Pastor. 


Mortensgard.  Madam  Helset  brought  it  to  me  late 
one  evening. 

Rosmer.  If  you  had  inquired  of  Madam  Helset,  you 
would  have  learnt  that  my  poor  unhappy  wife  was  not 
fully  accountable  for  her  actions. 

Mortensgard.  I  did  make  inquiries,  Pastor  Ros- 
mer. But  I  must  say  that  was  not  the  impression  I  re- 
ceived. 

Rosmer.  Was  it  not  ?  Then  what  did  Madam  Hel-- 
set  think? 

Mortensgard.  Well,  she  too  was  strange.  I  could 
not  exactly  get  at  what  she  thought. 

Rosmer.  Oh?  But  what  is  your  precise  reason  for 
telling  me  now  about  this  incomprehensible  old  letter? 

Mortensgard.  To  impress  on  you  the  necessity  for 
extreme  prudence,  Pastor  Rosmer. 


316  FROM   IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Rosmer.     In  my  life,  do  you  mean  ? 

MORTENSGARD.      Yes. 

Rosmer.  Then  you  think  that  I  must  have  something 
to  conceal? 

MortensgArd.  Putting  everything  together,  I  don't 
see  what  other  conclusion  I  can  come  to. 

Rosmer.  Then  you  believe  me  capable  of  leading  an 
immoral  life. 

MortensgArd.  It  seems  to  me  that  such  an  expres- 
sion sounds  strange  from  you  now,  Pastor.  I  should 
have  thought  an  emancipated  man  would  have  left  be- 
hind him  all  these  old  morbid  considerations  and  scru- 
ples. 

Rosmer.     Have  you  done  so  yourself  ? 

Mortensgard.  Yes,  of  course.  I  take  it  that,  since 
I  am  in  this  world,  I  have  the  right  to  live  my  life  after 
my  own  mind  and  inclination.  But  of  course,  for  one's 
own  sake  one  must  avoid  falling  out  with  the  hypocrites 
and  with  all  the  victims  of  stupefaction  one  mixes  with. 

Rosmer.  You  and  I  will  never  agree  on  that  point, 
Mr.   Mortensgard. 

Mortensgard.  H'm.  But  in  any  case  be  cautious, 
Pastor.  If  anything  should  come  out  that  conflicts  with 
current  prejudices,  you  may  be  sure  the  whole  liberal 
movement  will  get  the  blame  for  it.  Good-bye,  Pastor 
Rosmer. 

FROM  THE  THIRD   ACT 

Rebecca.  When  I  came  down  here  from  Finmark 
with  Dr.  West — I  was  then  a  year  or  two  over  twenty 

Rosmer.     Oh  yes.     I  know  that.  * 

Rebecca.  Rosmer — I  was  no  longer  what  people  cal/ 
an — an  innocent  woman. 


ROSMERSHOLM  317 

Rosmer.  What  do  you  say!  Impossible!  You  are 
out  of  your  senses. 

Gylling.     Perhaps  I  had  better  go. 

Rebecca.  No,  please  stay  where  you  are,  my  dear 
Rector.  Yes,  Rosmer — that  is  the  truth  about  me  from 
the  beginning. 

Rosmer.  Oh,  you,  you!  How  could  you — !  Who 
was  he? 

Rebecca.  One  who  had  complete  power  over  me. 
He  had  taught  me  everything.  All  the  desultory  infor- 
mation I  had  about  life  at  that  time. 

Rosmer.  But  for  all  that!  You — oh,  that  you  could 
surrender  yourself ! 

Rebecca.  I  thought  then  that  it  was  something  that 
concerned  no  one  but  myself.  If  it  were  only  hidden. — ■ 
And  hidden  it  was. 

Gylling.     So  that  is  the  state  of  the  case. 

Rebecca  (looking  at  him).  After  such  an  experience 
it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  a  woman  should  hold  out. 
Hold  out  in  spite  of  pretty  harsh  usage.  Hold  out  to  the 
last. 

Gylling.     Now  I  understand  it — perhaps. 

Rosmer.  And  that  is  what  you  were  when  you  came 
to  Rosmersholm.     What  did  you  want  here! 

Rebecca.  I  wanted  to  take  my  share  in  the  life  of 
the  new  era  that  was  dawning,  with  its  new  ideas.  You 
liad  told  me  about  Ulric  Hetman  and  the  revolution  he 
had  nearly — .  I  wanted  you  to  be  to  me  what  he  had 
cr.ce  been  to  you.  And  then,  I  thought,  we  should  march 
en  ward  in  freedom,  side  by  side.  Ever  onward.  Ever 
farther  to  the  front. — But  between  you  and  perfect  eman- 
cipation there  rose  the  great,  insurmountable  barrier. 

Rosmer.     What  barrier  do  you  mean  ? 

Rebecca.     I  mean  this:  you  could  grow  only  in  the 


318  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

sunshine — and  here  you  were  sickening  in  the  gloom  of 
such  a  marriage. 

Rosmer.  But  we  never  said  a  word  about  my  mar- 
riage.    Never  a  word.     I  am  certain  of  that. 

Rebecca.  We  did  not.  Nor  was  it  necessary.  For 
I  could  see  to  the  bottom  of  your  heart.  And  then  I 
went  to  work. 

Rosmer.     Went  to  work  ?    In  what  way  ? 

Gylling.     Do  you  mean  that 

Rebecca.  Yes,  Rosmer —  (Rises.)  Sit  still.  You 
too,  Rector  Gylling.  But  now  it  must  out.  It  was  not 
you,  Rosmer.  You  are  innocent.  It  was  / — that  lured 
Beata  out  into  the  paths  of  delusion 

Rosmer  (springs  up).     Rebecca! 

Gylling   (rises  from  the  sofaj.     The  paths  of  delusion! 

Rebecca.  The  paths  that  led  to  the  mill-pond.  Now 
you  know  it,  both  of  you. 

Rosmer.  But  I  don't  understand — .  I  only  hear — 
and  don't  understand  a  word. 

Gylling.     Oh  yes.     I  am  beginning  to  understand. 

Rosmer.  But  what  can  you  possibly  have  said  ? 
There  was  nothing — absolutely  nothing  to  tell. 

Rebecca.  There  was  this:  we  were  talking  together, 
reading  together,  working  our  way  to  emancipation  to- 
gether. 

Rosmer.     So  she  knew  that. 

Rebecca.  She  came  to  know  that  you  were  working 
yourself  free  from  all  the  old,  obsolete  prejudices. 

Rosmer.  And,then?  What  more?  I  must  know  all  now. 

Rebecca.  Sometime  after,  I  begged  and  implored  her 
to  let  me  go  away  from  Rosmersholm. 

Rosmer.     Why  did  you  want  to  go  ? 

Rebecca.  I  did  not  want  to  go;  I  wanted  to  stay 
where  I  was.     But  I  told  her  that  it  would  be  best  for 


ROSMERSHOLM  319 

us  all  that  I  should  go  away  in  time.  I -gave  her  to  under- 
stand that  if  I  stayed  any  longer,  I  could  not — I  could 
not  tell — what  might  happen. 

Rosmer.     Then  this  is  what  you  did. 

Rebecca.     Yes,  Rosmer. 

Rosmer.     This  is  what  you  call  "  going  to  work." 

Rebecca.     I  called  it  so,  yes. 

Rosmer.     Have  you  confessed  all  now? 

Rebecca.     Yes. 

Gylling.     Not  all. 

Rebecca.     What  more  should  there  be  ? 

Gylling.  Did  you  not  at  last  give  Beata  to  under- 
stand that  it  was  necessary — not  only  that  it  would  be 
wisest,  but  that  it  was  necessary — both  for  your  own 
sake  and  Rosmer's,  that  you  should  go  away  as  soon  as 
possible  ? 

Rebecca.     Perhaps  I  did  say  something  of  the  sort. 

Rosmer  (sinks  into  a  chair  and  covers  his  face  with  his 
hands).  And  this  tissue  of  lies  and  deceit  she  believed 
in!  Believed  in  it  as  firmly,  as  immovably,  as  in  a  gos- 
pel. (Looks  up  at  Rebecca.)  And  she  never  turned  to  me. 
Never  said  one  word  to  me.     Why  did  she  not  do  so  ? 

Rebecca.     I  dissuaded  her  so  earnestly  from  it. 

Rosmer.  Yes,  yes,  in  everything  she  bowed  before 
your  will.  And  then  she  quietly  went  out  of  life.  Effaced 
herself.  Went  into — the  mill-pond.  (Springs  up.)  How 
could  you — how  could  you  play  this  ghastly  game  ? 

Rebecca.  I  had  to  choose  between  your  life  and  hers, 
Rosmer.     Either  you  would  have  been  ruined  or 

Rosmer.     — or  Beata,  yes. 

Gylling.     This  is  frightful!     Frightful. 

Rebecca.  You  think  then  that  I  acted  in  full,  cool 
self-possession !  Just  as  I  stand  here  telling  it  all !  There 
are  two  sorts  of  will  in  us,  I  believe.     I  wanted  Beata 


320  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

away.  But  I  never  really  believed  that  it  would  come 
to  pass.  As  I  advanced,  at  each  step  I  seemed  to  hear 
something  within  me  cry  out:  No  farther!  Not  a  step 
farther! — And  yet  I  could  not  stop.  I  had  to  venture  the 
least  little  bit  farther.  Only  one  hair's  breadth  more. 
And  then  one  more — and  always  one  more.  Have  you 
never  felt  what  it  is  like  to  be  giddy?  One  dare  not 
take  another  step.  Nor  look  down.  And  yet  one  does  it. 
One  can't  help  it.  One  almost  thinks  it's  a  delightful 
sensation — .     That  is  the  way  such  things  come  about. 

Rosmer.  Now  I  know  how  it  all  happened.  But 
there  is  one  thing  I  do  not  understand.  How  were  you 
able  to  bring  yourself  to  disclose  your  whole  heartless 
conduct  ? 

Rebecca.  It  had  to  be  done  for  your  sake.  I  did 
not  wish  you  to  feel  oppressed  and  burdened  by  self- 
leproach. 

FROM  THE  FOURTH  ACT 

Madam  Helset.     But  the  Pastor,  he's  not  home  yet  ? 

Rebecca.  If  I  don't  see  him,  you  can  tell  him  that  I 
will  write  to  him — a  long  letter.     Tell  him  that. 

Madam  Helset.  But  dear  Miss  West — that'll  never 
do  at  all 

Rebecca.     What,  Madam  Helset? 

Madam  Helset.  That  you  should  go  away  from  Ros- 
mersholm  without  saying  good-bye  to  the  Pastor. 

Rebecca.     Well,  as  it  happens,  perhaps  it  is  best  so. 


Rebecca.     Could  you  have  believed  such  a  thing  of 
Pastor  Rosmer  and  me  ? 

Madam  Helset.     Believed ? 


ROSMERSHOLM  321 

Rebecca.  Yes,  don't  you  think  it  came  like  a  thunder- 
clap ? 

Madam  Helset.  Oh,  I  won't  quite  say  that  either. 
We're  all  of  us  human,  Miss  West. 

Rebecca.  That's  very  true,  Madam  Helset.  We  are 
all  of  us  human. 

Madam  Helset  (looking  towards  the  hall) .  Oh  Lord — 
if  that's  not  him  coming! 

Rebecca.    After  all.    (Resolutely.)   Well,  well;  so  be  it. 


Rebecca  ('pointing  out  through  the  hall).  Hush.  Do 
you  see  who  is  coming? 

Rosmer  (looks  out).     It  is  Ulric  Hetman. 

(Ulric  Hetman  comes  in  through  tlie  hall.) 

Ulric  Hetman  (stops  in  the  doorway).  Rosmer — my 
boy,  my  boy — what  is  this  I  hear  about  you  ? 

Rosmer.     Have  you  come  to  stay  with  us  ? 

Hetman.     No.     I  have  come  to  say  my  last  farewell. 

Rebecca.     Are  you  leaving  the  town  again  already  ? 

Hetman.  Yes.  I'm  shaking  the  dust  off  my  feet.  A 
man  can't  live  up  in  these  parts.  It's  even  worse  than 
down  below. 

Rosmer.  I  had  thought  that  more  light  and  freedom 
was  coming. 

Hetman.     So  I  hear. 

Rosmer  (with  a  melancholy  smile) .  Your  old  pupil  has 
not  been  false  to  you,  you  see. 

Hetman.  Beware  of  what  you  do.  Don't  follow  my 
example.  All  my  doctrine  is  false.  Has  been  false  from 
its  very  beginning.     That  I  have  now  found  out. 

Rosmer.  Do  you  no  longer  adhere  to  all  the  great 
ideals  ? 


322  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hetman.  It's  all  rubbish,  my  boy.  Empty  dreams. 
Nothing  but  mocking  shadows  that  drag  us  down  to  de- 
struction.    Humanity  is  past  help. 

Rosmer.     Do  you  believe  that! 

Hetman.     Past  help  for  all  eternity. 

Rosmer.     But  why  ?     Why  should  we  believe  that  ? 

Hetman.  Because  a  mistake  was  made  at  the  very 
Creation. 

Rosmer.     And  that  mistake  was ? 

Hetman  (shrugs  his  shoulders).     Who  can  say! 

Rosmer.  Well,  but  how  can  you  tell  that  the  mistake 
was  there? 

Hetman  (with  a  mysterious  smile).  The  Master  de- 
ceived himself,  my  boy. 

Rosmer.     Deceived  himself?'  The  Master?     How? 

Hetman.     Are  you  a  judge  of  character? 

Rosmer.     I  think  myself  I  am,  but 

Hetman.  Well,  in  any  case  you  used  once  to  mix  with 
artists — with  various  poets,  I  remember. 

Rosmer.     Yes. 

Hetman.  Didn't  you  notice  a  peculiar  trait  about  those 
fellows  ? 

Rosmer.     What  trait  do  you  mean  ? 

Hetman.  When  one  of  these  creative  gentlemen  had 
finished  a  work,  which  had  turned  out  absolutely  as  it 
should  be,  he  examined  it  and  let  it  go.  Quite  calmly. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  said  about  the  work.  It  was  as 
it  should  be.     Didn't  you  notice  that,  my  boy  ? 

Rosmer.  Yes.  And  it  seems  to  me  perfectly  reason- 
able. 

Hetman.  I  think  so  too.  But  once  in  a  while  the  mas- 
ter might  chance  upon  a  failure.  Either  he  was  not  in  the 
right  mood,  or  in  too  much  of  a  hurry,  or  whatever  it  might 
be.     What  does  my  gentleman  do  then?     Why,  he  puts 


ROSMERSHOLM  323 

his  head  on  one  side.  Looks  at  his  work  with  the  air  of 
a  connoisseur.  Examines  it  from  every  side.  And  then 
says  he:  Upon  my  soul — this  is  good*     damned  good. 

Rosmer.     Insecurity,  you  mean? 

Hetman  (nocb  sloivly).  The  master  feels  that  there  is 
a  flaw  in  the  work.  And  so  he  takes  a  firm  stand.  Inse- 
curity of  conscience,  my  boy.  And  that  is  what  we  have 
all  inherited.  That  is  why  humanity  is  incurable.  Past 
help. 

Rebecca.    Then  is  life  worth  living  ? 

Hetman.  Oh  yes.  Only  avoid  doing  silly  things.  No 
quackery.     Let  life  swing  right  or  left — just  as  it  chances. 

Rebecca.     But  one's  self  ?     Each  individual  ? 

Hetman.  Eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  my  fair  young 
lady.  And  you  must  take  existence  in  the  same  way,  Ros- 
mer. The  Master  forgot  to  give  us  wings.  Both  inner 
and  outer  ones.  So  let  us  crawl  on  the  earth  as  long  as 
we  can.     There  is  nothing  else  to  be  done. 

Rosmer.  Well,  in  any  case  there  is  the  alternative  of 
making  an  end  of  it  all. 

Rebecca  {involuntarily).     Yes,  happily. 

Hetman.     But  surely  you  two  can  get  along 

Rosmer.  Do  you  think  so  ?  Then  you  still  believe  in 
love  ? 

Hetman.  My  son,  I  believe  in  happiness — the  happi- 
ness of  living  under  the  same  roof  with  so  attractive  a 
companion. 

Rosmer.  Unhappily  the  attractive  companion  is  leav- 
ing me. 

Hetman.     Leaving  you  ? 

Rosmer.     To-night. 

Rebecca.     In  half  an  hour. 

Hetman.  You  don't  seem  to  understand  how  to  keep 
your  women.     Your  first  one  left  you  too. 


324  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rosmer.     Yes,  she  did. 

Hetman.  Brave  woman.  She  went  of  her  own  accord 
— to  smooth  your  path. 

Rosmer.     Who  told  you  that? 

Hetman.  That  blackguard  Mortensgard  let  out  some- 
thing about  it  in  a  letter. 

Rosmer.     I  see. 

Hetman.  Respect  and  honour  her.  For  that  woman 
must  have  had  a  kind  of  wings,  it  seems  to  me. 

Rebecca.     Wings  ?     Why  wings  ? 

Hetman.  Did  she  not  raise  herself  so  high  that  she 
could  die  for  her  love  ? 

Rosmer.     Ah  yes — to  be  able  to  die  for  something. 

Hetman.  I  would  have  taken  my  oath  there  wasn't  a 
single  living  soul  that  could  do  it. 

Rosmer.  To  seek  death — and  so  bear  witness  of  one's 
love. 

Rebecca.     I  shall  not  go  to-night. 

Rosmer  (uneasily).     Yes,  go!     Go! 

Hetman.  Stay,  fair  lady.  To  you  there  is  no  danger 
abroad.  He  will  not  let  you  be  lured  beneath  the  waters. 
Farewell. 

Rosmer.     Are  you  going  now  ?     In  the  dark  night  ? 

Hetman.     The  dark  night  is  best.     Peace  be  with  you. 

(He  goes  out  through  the  hall.     There  is  a  short  silence 

in  the  room.     Rebecca  is  standing  by  tlie  window, 

Rosmer  walks  up  and  down.     TJien  lie  sits  down  in 

a  chair  by  tlie  table) 


Madam  Helset.  Miss  West,  the  carriage  is —  (Looks 
round.)  Not  here?  Out  at  this  time  of  night?  Well — 
I  must  say — .  H'm —  (Goes  out  into  the  hall,  looks  round, 
and  comes  in  again.)     Not  on  the  garden  seat.     Ah,  well, 


ROSMERSHOLM  325 

well.  {Goes  to  the  window  and  looks  out)  Good  God! — 
what's  that?  The  White  Horse!  Oh  no,  oh  no!— There 
it  is.  On  the  bridge.  To-night  he  dares —  (Shrieks 
aloud.)  In  the  mill-race!  Both  of  them  in  the  mill-race! 
(Runs  to  the  door  on  the  right  and  cries:)  Help — help! 
(Stops,  glances  towards  the  window,  and  says  in  a  lower 
tone.)  Oh  no.  This  is  past  all  help  or  remedy.  It  was 
the  dead  wife  that  took  them. 


^THE  LADY  FROM  THE  SEA?" 

A  PLAY  IN  FIVE  ACTS 

BY 

HENRIK  IBSEN 

1888 


DRAFT 

1st  act. — The  little  calling-place  for  tourist  steamers 
They  only  call  when  there  are  passengers  to  be  landed  01 
taken  on  board.  Shut  in  by  high,  steep  mountains.  The 
free,  open  sea  is  not  visible.  Only  the  winding  fiord. 
Bathing  hotel.  Sanatorium  higher  up.  When  the  play 
opens  the  last  steamer  of  the  year  is  going  north.  The 
boats  always  pass  at  midnight.  Slowly,  noiselessly  they 
.glide  into  the  bay  and  out  again. 

The  persons  of  the  play  fall  into  three  groups.  First, 
there  are  peculiar  figures  among  the  inhabitants  of  the 
place.  The  lawyer,  married  for  the  second  time  to  the 
woman  from  the  free,  open  sea.  Has  two  young  grown- 
up daughters  of  his  first  marriage.  Refined,  well-bred, 
bitter.  Past  stained  by  a  rash  affair.  Therefore  future 
career  barred.  The  starving  sign-painter  with  his  artist's 
dreams,  made  happy  by  imagination.  The  old  married 
clerk.  In  his  youth  he  wrote  a  play,  which  was  performed 
once.  Is  constantly  polishing  it,  and  lives  in  the  illusion 
of  getting  it  published  and  making  a  success.  Takes, 
however,  no  step  in  this  direction.  Reckons  himself  nev- 
ertheless among  literary  men.  Wife  and  children  believe 
blindly  in  "  the  piece."  (Perhaps  he  is  a  private  teacher, 
not  a  clerk  ?)  — Fresvik  the  tailor,  the  radical  man-midwife, 
who  shows  his  "emancipation"  in  ridiculous  escapades — - 
intrigues  with  other  men's  wives;  talks  about  divorce  and 
the  like. 

The  second  group  is  formed  by  the  summer  visitors 
and  the  invalids  at  the  Sanatorium.     Among  these  is  the 

329 


330  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

young  invalid  sculptor,  who  has  to  recruit  his  strength  to 
get  through  the  coming  winter.  For  next  summer  he  is 
promised  a  grant  of  money  and  a  commission  and  other 
support,  and  then  he  will  be  able  to  go  to  Italy.  Dreads 
the  possibility  of  having  to  die  without  having  seen  the 
south  and  without  having  achieved  anything  good  in  his 
art. — His  "patron"  is  staying  at  the  bathing  hotel.  As- 
sumes guardianship  over  the  invalid.  Is  a  man  of  prin- 
ciple. No  aid,  no  support  this  year.  The  grant  to  be 
down  in  black  and  white,  "then  we  will  see  what  we  can 
do  next  year."  '  His  wife,  stupid,  arrogant  and  tactless. 
Hurts  the  invalid,  sometimes  by  design,  sometimes  unwit- 
tingly.— Many  secondary  persons. 

The  third  group  consists  of  passing  tourists,  who  enter 
episodically  into  the  action.         * 

Life  is  apparently  bright,  easy  and  lively  up  there  be- 
neath the  shadow  of  the  mountains  and  in  the  monotony 
of  seclusion.  Then  the  idea  is  thrown  out  that  this  kind 
of  life  is  a  life  of  shadows.  No  energy;  no  struggle  for 
liberation.  Only  longings  and  desires.  Thus  they  live 
through  the  short,  light  summer.  And  afterwards — into 
the  darkness.  Then  awakes  the  longing  for  the  life  of  the 
great  world  outside.  But  what  is  to  be  gained  by  that? 
With  surroundings,  with  spiritual  development,  demands 
and  longings  and  desires  increase.  He  or  she,  who  stands 
on  the  height,  yearns  for  the  secrets  of  the  future  and  a 
share  in  the  life  of  the  future  and  communication  with  dis- 
tant worlds.  Everywhere  there  is  limitation.  The  result 
is  melancholy  like  a  hushed,  wailing  song  over  the  whole 
of  human  existence  and  over  the  deeds  of  men.  A  light 
summer  day  with  the  great  darkness  to  follow — that  is 
all. 

Has  the  line  of  human  development  gone  astray  ?  Whj 
have  we  come  to  belong  to  the  dry  land  ?     Why  not  to  the 


"THE  LADY   FROM  THE  SEA"         331 

air  ?  Why  not  to  the  sea  ?  The  longing  to  possess  wings. 
The  strange  dreams  that  one  can  fly  and  that  one  does 
fly  without  being  surprised  at  it — how  is  all  this  to  be  in- 
terpreted ? 

We  ought  to  possess  ourselves  of  the  sea.  Build  our 
cities  floating  upon  the  sea.  Move  them  southward  or 
northward  according  to  the  season.  Learn  to  harness  the 
storms  and  the  weather.  Some  such  felicity  will  come, 
And  we — shall  not  be  in  it!  Shall  not  live  to  se* 
it! 

The  sea's  power  of  attraction.  Longing  for  the  sea 
Human  beings  akin  to  the  sea.  Bound  by  the  sea.  De- 
pendent on  the  sea.  Compelled  to  return  to  it.  A  fish 
species  forms  a  primitive  link  in  the  chain  of  evolution. 
Are  rudiments  thereof  still  present  in  the  human  mind? 
In  the  minds  of  certain  individuals  ? 

Pictures  of  the  teeming  life  of  the  sea  and  of  that  which 
is  "lost  for  ever." 

The  sea  possesses  a.  power  over  one's  moods  that  has 
the  effect  of  a  will.  The  sea  can  hypnotise.  Nature  in 
general  can  do  so.  The  great  mystery  is  the  dependence 
of  the  human  will  on  that  which  is  "will-less." 

She  came  from  out  by  the  sea,  where  her  father's  par- 
sonage lay.  Grew  up  out  there — by  the  free,  open  sea. 
Became  engaged  to  the  wayward  young  mate — a  dismissed 
naval  cadet — whose  ship  was  laid  up  for  repairs  for  the 
winter  in  an  outlying  harbour.  Had  to  break  off  the  en- 
gagement by  her  father's  wish.  Partly  also  of  her  own 
accord.  Could  not  forgive  what  came  to  light  about  his 
past.  So  prejudiced  was  she  at  that  time  through  her 
education  in  her  father's  home.  Nor  has  she  ever  since 
quite  left  her  prejudices  behind,  though  she  knows  better. 
Stands  on  the  border-line,  hesitating  and  doubting. 

The  mystery  in  her  marriage — which  she  scarcely  darts 


332  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

acknowledge  to  herself;  scarcely  dares  to  think  of:  Imag* 
ination's  power  of  attraction  towards  the  former  one. 
Towards  him  who  is  gone. 

In  effect — in  her  unconscious  view — it  is  he  that  she  is 
living  her  married  life  with. 

But — on  the  other  hand — are  her  husband  and  step- 
children  living  wholly  with  her?  Have  not  these  three, 
as  it  were,  a  whole  world  of  memories  among  themselves  ? 
They  keep  festivals,  whose  meaning  she  can  only  guess. 
Conversations  come  to  a  standstill — are  broken  off,  when 
she  comes  in.  She  did  not  know  her  predecessor,  and 
from  delicacy  the  subject  is  not  mentioned  when  she  is 
present.  There  is  a  freemasonry  between  all  the  others  in 
the  house.  The  housekeeper  and  servants  included.  She 
is  never  admitted  to  it.  The  others  have  their  own  affairs. 
She  stands  outside. 

She  meets  "the  strange  passenger."  This  is  the  name 
given  him  by  the  other  visitors.  He  once  felt  a  deep  at- 
tachment to  her.  That  was  when  she  was  engaged  to  the 
young  sailor.  Now  he  is  overworked  and  has  been  ordered 
sea-bathing.  Life  has  not  brought  him  what  he  looked 
for.     He  is  bitter.     Cutting  in  a  jocular  way. 

The  sculptor  tells  his  story.  Was  sent  to  sea  at  twelve. 
Shipwrecked  five  years  ago.  Was  then  seventeen.  On 
that  occasion  he  got  his  "lesion."  Lay  for  a  long  time  in 
the  cold  sea.  Inflammation  of  the  lungs  followed.  Has 
never  really  got  over  it.  But  it  was  a  great  piece  of  luck 
nevertheless.  For  it  enabled  him  to  become  an  artist. 
Think  of  being  able  to  model  in  the  delightful  clay,  which 
shapes  itself  so  delicately  between  one's  fingers! 

What  then  does  he  think  of  modelling?  Figures  of 
gods  ?     Or  perhaps  old  vikings  ? 

No.  Nothing  of  that  sort.  As  soon  as  he  can  manage 
it,  he  will  have  a  try  at  a  big  group. 


"THE  LADY  FROM  THE  SEA"         333 

And  what  is  it  to  represent  ? 

Oh,  it  is  to  represent  something  out  of  his  own  experi- 
ence. 

And  what  was  that  ?     He  really  must  tell  it. 

Well,  it  is  to  be  a  young  woman,  a  sailor's  wife,  lying 
asleep.  And  she  is  dreaming  too.  One  will  be  able  to 
see  that. 

Nothing  more? 

Oh  yes.  Her  husband  is  drowned.  But  he  has  come 
home  nevertheless.  In  the  night-time;  and  there  he  stands 
by  her  bedside  and  looks  at  her. 

But  in  heaven's  name — he  said  it  was  to  be  something 
out  of  his  own  experience! 

Yes.     This  is  out  of  his  own  experience.     In  a  sense. 

He  has  seen ?! 

Well — he  doesn't  mean  to  say  he  has  actually  seen  it, 
of  course.     But  all  the  same 

And  then  comes  the  tale — fragmentary  and  abrupt — 
suggesting  to  her  terrible  misgivings  and  apprehensions. 

First  Act 

The  lawyer's  house,  with  a  large,  shady  veranda  on  the 
left.  Garden  in  front  and  around.  At  the  back,  a  hedge, 
with  a  small  gate.  Beyond  the  hedge,  a  footpath  along  the 
shore,  shaded  by  trees  on  either  side.  Between  the  trees 
there  is  a  view  of  the  fiord,  with  high  mountain  peaks 
in  the  distance.  Brilliantly  clear  and  warm  summer 
morning. 

The  Painter  stands  with  a  large  palette,  painting  some 
new  posts  on  the  veranda.  The  Private  Teacher  enters 
from  the  lawyer's  office  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Has 
got  another  execution  delayed.  Thoroughly  good -hearted 
man,  that  lawyer.     Now  if  only  the  play  is  brought  out,  we 


334  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

are  over  the  worst.  Teacher.  Is  there  company  expeeted 
to-day  ?  Painter.  Looks  like  it.  The  daughters  are  put- 
ting flowers  in  vases  on  the  veranda.  T.  Yes,  it  is  a  gay 
time  in  the  tourist  season.  P.  To-night  another  of  the 
big  boats  is  coming.  A  few  words  are  exchanged  with  the 
girls,  who  go  backwards  and  forwards. — The  Sculptor  comes 
along  the  path,  stops  at  the  gate  and  enters  into  conversa- 
tion with  those  within.  The  painter  embarrassed  at  being 
seen  at  such  common  work.  Good-nature  of  course.  Bit- 
terness against  "fashionable  artists,"  whose  own  country 
is  not  good  enough  for  them.  The  Sculptor  comes  inside. 
Wants  to  borrow  the  palette.  The  girls  with  more  flowers. 
S.  Is  it  some  anniversary?  The  younger:  Yes,  mother's 
birthday.  S.  Indeed!  The  elder  (to  her  sister):  Do  be 
quiet!  S.  says  good-bye  and  goes.  T.  goes  also.  The 
lawyer  comes  out  on  to  the  verancla.  Some  words  are  ex- 
changed with  P.,  who  has  now  finished  his  work  and  goes. — 
Lawyer  and  daughters.  He  is  not  quite  satisfied  with 
the  arrangements.  The  elder:  Oh  father,  "the  s.  p." 
("  strange  passenger ")  is  coming  this  morning,  you  know. 
Lawyer  smiles :  Yes,  yes,  you're  right.  Observations  about 
him.  Is  still  good-looking.  An  old  lion  of  the  capital. 
The  s.  p.  comes.  Had  so  little  opportunity  of  talking  to 
him  last  night.  After  a  while  the  girls  go.  Then  a 
long  conversation  between  the  friends.  Details  about  the 
intervening  years. — The  wife  returns  from  bathing.  Law- 
yer says  she  disports  herself  in  the  water  like  a  mermaid. 
Yes,  yes,  she  says,  the  sea  is  pleasanter  than  the  dry  land. 
Lawyer  has  to  go  and  attend  to  his  business. — Frank  and 
confidential  dialogue  between  the  two  others.  She  has 
not  been  really  happy  for  the  last  three  years.  Why  ? 
Cannot  tell  him.  It  is  so  strange. — The  sculptor  comes 
with  a  large  bouquet.  Bows  and  offers  his  congratula- 
tions.— Why?     On  the  occasion  of  the  anniversary. — Is 


"THE   LADY  FROM  THE  SEA"         335 

there  any  anniversary  to-day? — Yes,  it  is  your  birthday, 
isn't  it?  Mine! — The  s.  p.  No,  I'm  sure  it  isn't.  Lady. 
What  makes  you  think  that  ?  S.  Miss  B.  let  out  the  secret. 
She  said,  it  is  mother's  birthday  to-day.  L.  I  see!  The 
s.  p.  But —  Oh,  just  so.  L.  takes  the  flowers  and  thanks 
him.  Then  she  enters  into  conversation  with  iS.  on  his 
affairs. — Here  follows  the  dialogue  already  sketched  (in  the 
2nd  sheet).  S.  is  sent  down  into  the  garden  to  the  girls. 
The  s.  p.  finds  him  too  green.  Lawyer  enters  from  his 
office.  The  girls  from  the  garden  room.  Outburst  over 
the  beautiful  flowers.  Oh  look!  Where  did  they  come 
from  ?  Mr.  P.  brought  them. — The  s.  p.  For  a  birthday 
greeting.  The  younger:  Oh — .  The  elder:  There,  you 
see!  Lawyer  (embarrassed) :  My  dear,  etc.  Don't  be  hurt 
about  it — .  The  girls,  you  see — etc.  Soda-water  and  fruit- 
syrup  in  the  garden  room.  It  is  cooler.  I'll  go  and  open 
the  bottles.  (He  and  the  daughters  go  in.)  The  s.  p. 
You  are  being  wronged.  You  have  no  share  in  the  life 
that  is  led  here.  L.  I  must  not  complain.  For  I  too  live 
my  own  life — in  a  way. — You?  How? — That  I  cannot 
tell  to  anybody  on  earth. — Won't  you  go  in?  (They  go 
into  the  garden  room.) 

Second  Act 

(Up  at  "the  Prospect,"  a  wooded  height  behind  the 
trading  station.  Far  below  the  outer  fiord  is  seen,  with 
islands  and  jutting  promontories.  The  open  sea  is  not 
visible.  Up  on  the  height,  a  flag-staff  and  one  or  two 
seats.  A  summer  night.  There  is  a  tinge  of  orange  in 
the  upper  air  and  over  the  mountain  peaks  in  the  far 
distance.) 


336  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 


CHARACTERS 

Lawyer  [Doctor]  Wangel.  [,  district  physician]. 

Mrs.  Wangel,  his  second  wife. 

Thea  [Annette]      )      his  daughters  by  his  former  mar«> 

Frida,  a  young  girl  )      riage. 

Hesler,  a  Civil  servant  [,  a  schoolmaster]. 

Hans  Lovstad  [Lyngstrand],  a  young  sculptor. 

Stromme,  a  merchant. 

Mrs.  Stromme,  his  wife. 

Solfeldt  [Ballesen],  a  painter. 

Ballesen,  a  private  tutor. 

Townspeople,  Visitors,  Steamboat  Passengers, 
and  Tourists. 

(The  action  takes  place  at  a  trading  station  in  Northern 
Norway.) 


End  of  1.  Act 


Those  lovely  flowers ? 

A  birthday  greeting  (puts  them  in  the  vase).     There, 
(now  they  are  a  decoration  for  mother's  birthday. 
(The  girls  fall  on  her  neck.) 


1st  Act 

A  feeling  of  summer,  life  and  gladness  everywhere. 
The  days  pass  like  a  holiday.  Thora  takes  her  husband 
into  her  confidence  after  the  conversation  with  Hesler. 
Wangel  disturbed  at  hearing  of  her  former  secret  engage- 
ment. Forgiveness  and  forgetting.  Now  at  any  rate 
she  belongs  to  him  alone.     Hereafter  there  will  be  per- 


"THE  LADY  FROM  THE  SEA"         337 

feet  confidence  between  him  and  her  and  the  children. 
They  will  mutually  share  each  other's  memories.  Hence- 
forth they  will  live  together  as  husband  and  wife.  She 
(agitated).  As  husband  and  wife!  Yes,  yes!  He  starts. 
Does  not  understand.     She  gives  no  further  explanation. 

2nd  Act 

Wan  gel  tries  to  find  the  explanation  of  her  strange 
nature  by  means  of  hints  and  indirect  enquiries  in  a  con- 
versation with  Hesler.  It  is  the  sea  that  attracts  her  with 
mysterious  power.  Wangel  speaks  to  her  about  this. 
Does  she  wish  to  go  to  the  sea  ?  Yes,  yes,  she  wishes  to 
go  to  the  sea!  Then  he  is  willing  to  move  out  there! 
No,  no,  no  sacrifices  like  that!  No  wrenching  away 
from  here,  where  is  his  natural  home.  He  holds  to  his 
purpose.  She:  Set  me  free!  let  me  go  alone!  For  how 
long?  For  ever!  I  cannot  live  with  you  any  longer. 
Then  follows  the  explanation.  It  is  really  with  him  she 
is  living  in  marriage! 
i 

3rd  Act 

This  act  takes  place  in  the  secluded  part  of  the  garden, 
with  bridge  and  bathing-house.  Thora  is  staying  there. 
Wangel  comes  to  her.  Then  Hesler.  Then  at  last 
Lyngstrand.  Great  news!  The  American  is  here!  He 
has  seen  him! — Scene  between  Thora  and  Johnson.  What 
the  sea  has  joined,  man  cannot  put  asunder.  Wangel 
comes.  Recognises  the  American  as  the  mate  who  killed 
the  captain.  Calls  Thora  to  witness.  She:  No,  no. 
Denies  all.  Johnson  goes:  Well,  now  you  must  get  ready 
to  go,  Thora. 


'338  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

4th  Act 

Same  place.  Now  comes  the  settlement  between  Wan- 
gel  and  Thora.  Hesler  appears.  Wangel  consents  to 
Thora's  going.     Renounces  his  claim  upon  her. 


How  did  you  see  him  ? 
Just  as  he  was  in  reality. 


She  will  leave  him 
Divorce. 


He  has  bought  her 


She  has  sold  herself. 

Feeling  of  shame  over  it. 

This  is  not  pure  marriage.     No. 


But  yesterday  you  said  that 
you  saw  him  as  he  was 
when  you  parted. 
Did  I  say  that — You  are 
mistaken. 

You    said    yesterday 
that   at  the   first   mo- 
ment you  did  not  rec- 
ognise him. 
The  first  one  was  so.  His  eyes. 

It  was  founded  in  freedom.  In  free  will  on  both  sides. 
This  stands  in  the  way.  Oh,  if  she  could  come  to  love 
him  as  he  deserves. 

The  daemonic  attraction  of 
the  entirely  unknown. 

But  she  does  not  know  him! 

For  that  very  reason. 

She  did    not    know    W. 

either.  Arenholdt, 

And  then  to-night  the  de- 
cision! 

For  a  whole  lifetime. 

Perhaps  the  true  future  for- 
feited! 


"THE   LADY   FROM  THE  SEA"         339 

Life  in  freedom  forfeited, 

Tora,  you  love  him! 

I  feel  as  though  my  place 

were  with  him. 
You  shall  see  him.     Speak 
to  him. 

Conclusion: 

Tora :     Now  I  come  to  you 
of  my  own  will. 


5th  Act 

Arenholdt,  Annette,  Lyngstrand  and  Frida  in  a  boat 
from  left  to  right. 

Jump  ashore  here.  No,  make  fast  there  at  the  bath- 
ing-steps. 

A  little  while  after,  Arenholdt  and  Annette  come  in 
from  r. 

Annette.  I  began  to  be  so  afraid  that  life  would  go 
from  me. 

Now  he  is  dead  to  her 


FIRST  ACT 


The  house  of  Wangel,  the  laivyer,  with  a  large,  shady 
veranda,  on  the  left.  Garden  in  front  and  around. 
[Near  the  veranda,  a  flag-staff.  To  the  right,  in  the 
garden,  an  arbour,  with  table  and  chairs.']  At  the 
back,  a  hedge,  with  a  small  gate.  Beyond  the  hedge, 
a  footpath  along  the  shore,  siiaded  by  trees  on  either 
side.  Between  the  trees  there  is  a  view  of  the  fiord, 
with  high  mountain  peaks  in  the  distance.  It  is  a 
warm  and  brilliantly  clear  summer  morning. 


340  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

(Ballesen,  a  middle-aged  painter,  dressed  in  an  old  velvet 
jacket  and  broad-brimmed  hat,  with  the  look  of  an 
artist  in  his  costume,  stands  with  brush  and  paint-pot 
below  the  veranda,  painti?ig  some  new  wooden  posts 
in  the  railing.  A  little  way  off  stands  an  easel  with 
a  stretched  canvas.  Beside  it,  on  a  camp-stool,  are 
brushes,  palette,  and  a  paint-box.  He  is  humming  as 
he  works.) 

(Thea  Wangel  comes  out  upon  the  veranda  through  the 
open  garden-room  door.  She  is  carrying  a  large  vase 
of  flowers,  which  she  places  upon  the  table.) 

Thea  Wangel  (looking  at  the  freshly-painted  posts). 
Well,  Ballesen — I  hope  you  put  plenty  of  drying-oil  into 
the  colour? 

Ballesen.     Within  an  hour  it  will  be  as  dry  as  a 
bone,  Miss  Wangel.     I  give  you  my  word  as  an  artist. 
(Thea  Wangel  goes  into  the  garden-room  again.) 
(Shortly  afterwards,  Hans  Lyngstad  comes  along 
the  path  from  tlie  right.     [He  is  a  slightly -built 
young  man,  of  delicate  appearance,  poorly  but  neatly 
dressed.]     He  stops,  interested  by  the  sight  of  the 
easel  and  painter's  materials.) 
Hans  Lyngstad  (outside  the  hedge).     Good  morning. 
Ballesen  (turning  quickly).     Ah—!     (Puts  doivn  the 
paint-pot  in  embarrassment,  and  begins  to  busy  himself  at 
the  easel.)     Good  morning.     I  take  my  hat  off  to  you, 

sir — though  I  don't  think  I  have  the  pleasure 

Lyngstad.     You  are  a  painter,  are  you  not? 
Ballesen.     Yes,  certainly.     Why  should  I  not  be  a 
painter  ? 

Lyngstad.  Ah,  I  can  see  you  are. — Should  you  mind 
my  coming  in  for  a  moment? 

Ballesen.     Do  you  want  to  have  a  look  at  it? 


4  THE   LADY   FROM  THE  SEA"         341 

Lyngstad.     Yes,  I  should  like  to  extremely. 

Ballesen.  Oh  there's  nothing  much  to  see  as  yet. 
But  pray  come  in — you're  quite  welcome. 

Lyngstad.  Many  thanks.  (He  comes  in  through  the 
garden  gate.) 

Ballesen  (painting) .  I'm  only  sketching  it  in  at  pres- 
ent,— just  the  maiir  outlines,  you  know. 

Lyngstad.     Yes,  I  see. 

Ballesen.     An  artist  yourself,  perhaps  ? 

Lyngstad.     A  painter,  you  mean  ? 

Ballesen.     Yes. 

Lyngstad.  No,  I  am  not.  But  I  am  going  to  be  a 
sculptor. 

Ballesen.  Oh  indeed — are  you  ?  Well,  well,  sculp- 
ture, too,  is  a  fine,  gentleman-like  art.  (Goes  back  a  step 
and  looks  at  his  picture  through  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
with  his  head  on  one  side.)  I  fancy  I've  seen  you  in  the 
street  once  or  twice.     Have  you  been  staying  here  long  ? 

Lyngstad.  No,  I  have  only  been  here  a  fortnight. 
But  I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  stay  the  whole  summer. 

Ballesen.     To  enjoy  the  gaieties  of  the  season,  eh? 

Lyngstad.     Well,  rather  to  get  up  my  strength  a  bit. 

Ballesen.     Not  an  invalid,  I  hope? 

Lyngstad.  Well,  I'm  what  you  might  call  a  little  bit 
weak.  Nothing  to  speak  of,  you  know.  It's  only  a  sort 
of  short-windedness  in  my  chest. 

Ballesen.  Pooh — a  mere  trifle.  (Puts  down  his  paU 
ette.)  But,  by  Jove,  I  was  forgetting  that  I've  promised 
Miss  Wangel  to  do  a  bit  of  decorating  here.  (Takes 
the  paint-pot  and  finishes  the  woodwork.)  Perhaps  you 
think  it  strange  to  see  me  doing  this  kind  of  thing.  But 
I  don't  see  anything  to  be  ashamed  of  in  art  lending  its 
aid  to  handicraft  occasionally.  Eh  ?  Is  there  really  any- 
thing to  be  said  against  it? 


342  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Lyngstad.     No,  I'm  sure  there  can't  be. 
(A  steamer's  whistle  is  heard  again  outside.) 

Ballesen.  Hullo!  There's  another  monster  howl- 
ing. Now  I  suppose  we  shall  be  saddled  with  a  new  lot 
of  disturbers  of  the  peace. 

Lovstad.  There  seems  to  be  a  continual  coming  and 
going  of  tourists  here.  All  these  steamboats  calling  even- 
single  day. 

Ballesen.  You  might  add,  at  night  as  well.  To- 
night the  big  boat  for  the  North  Cape  will  be  here.  And 
then  we  shall  get  them — all  those  who  stop  here  to  make 
excursions  into  the  fiords.     Ugh! 

Lovstad.  Don't  you  care  for  all  the  life  there  is 
here  in  the  summer? 

Ballesen.  No,  indeed  I  don't.  For  it's  quite  foreign 
to  the  character  of  the  town. 

Lovstad.     Are  you  a  native  of  the  place? 

Ballesen.  No,  I  am  not.  But  I  have  become 
attached  to  the  place  by  the  bonds  of  time  and  habit. 

Lovstad.     You  have  lived  here  a  long  time,  then  ? 

Ballesen.  Well,  seventeen  or  eighteen  years.  I  came 
here  with  Varde's  dramatic  company.  But  we  got  into 
financial  difficulties;  so  the  company  broke  up  and  was 
scattered  to  the  winds. 

Lovstad.     But  you  remained  here  ? 

Ballesen.  Yes,  I  did.  For  the  town  needed  me,  I 
must  tell  you.     You  see,  at  that  time  I  was  working 

mostly  in  the  decorating  line. 

(Thea  comes  out  with  a  rocking-chair,  which  she 
places  in  tJie  veranda.) 

Thea  (speaking  into  the  garden-room.)  Frida — see  if 
you  can  find  the  embroidered  footstool  for  father. 

Lovstad  (approaches  the  veranda  and  hoics).  Good 
morning,  Miss  Wangel. 


"THE   LADY   FROM   THE   SEA"  343 

Thea  (by  the  balustrade).     Ah,  is  that  you,  Mr.  Lov- 

stad  ?     Good   morning.     Excuse    me   one    moment 

(Goes  into  the  house.) 

Ballesen.     Do  you  know  the  family  here  ? 

Lovstad.     Very  slightly.     I  have  met  the  young  ladies 

once  or  twice  at  other  houses.     And  I  had  a  little  talk 

with  Mrs.  Wangel  the  last  time  the  band  played  up  at 

the  Prospect.     She  said  I  might  come  and  see  them. 

Ballesen.  I'll  tell  you  what — you  ought  to  cultivate 
their  acquaintance. 

Lovstad.  Yes,  I've  been  thinking  of  paying  them  a 
visit — calling  on  them,  you  know.  If  I  could  only  find 
some  pretext  for  it. 

B.     Oh  nonsense — a  pretext 

(Frida  comes  out  with  the  stool.     Thea  brings  more 
jlowers.     Lovstad  bows  to  Frida  from  the  garden. 
Ballesen  collects  his  things  and  goes.) 
Frida  (by  the  balustrade) .     Thea  said  you  were  in  the 
garden. 

(Wangel  comes  in  from  the  left,  behind  the  house.) 

Wangel.     Well,  here  I  am,  little  girls! 

Thea.     Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  have  come. 
(He  goes  up  into  the  veranda.) 

Frida.     Have  you  finished  at  the  office  now,  father? 

Wangel.  Oh  no,  I  must  go  down  there  again  pres- 
ently. I  only  wanted  to  see  if  Hesler  had  come.  He 
hasn't,  then  ? 

Thea.     No,  we  have  seen  nothing  of  him  yet. 


Thea  (nodding  confidentially  to  him).  Of  course  you 
understand  that  it's  all  in  honour  of  Mr.  Hesler.  When 
an  old  friend  comes  to  pay  his  first  visit  to  you 


344  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Frida.  We  had  the  flag  up  for  him  yesterday  too. 
When  he  came  by  the  boat.        • 

Wangel  {half  smiling).  You  are  a  pair  of  young 
rogues — Well,  well, — after  all  it's  only  natural  that  we 
should  remember — .  But  all  the  same — I  don't  like  all 
this, — the  manner  of  it.  Well — what  can  one  say?  I 
suppose  there  is  no  other  way  of  doing  it. 

Frida.     Look,  there  he  is,  father. 

(Hesler  appears  on  the  path,  coming  from  the  left, 
and  goes  in  through  the  garden  gate.) 

Wangel  (going  to  meet  him).  Welcome!  A  hearty 
welcome  to  you! 

(They  shake  hands  and  go  into  the  veranda  together. 
Hesler  boivs  to  the  daughters.) 

Wangel  (forces  him  into  the  rocking-chair) .  Sit  down. 
Sit  down,  old  friend! 

Hesler.  Thanks.  (Looking  about  him.)  So  here  I 
am  in  my  old  haunts  again.  It  is  many  years  since  I  last 
sat  here. 

Wangel.  Yes,  it's  eight  whole  years  ago.  But  I  sup- 
pose you  recognize ? 

Hesler.  Perfectly.  I  don't  think  there  are  many 
changes  here.  Except  that  the  trees  have  grown  a  bit, 
and  you  have  planted  a  new  arbour  there 

Wangel.     Oh  no,  outwardly,  I  dare  say 


Hesler.  And  now,  of  course,  you  have  two  grown-up 
daughters  in  the  house. 

Wangel.     Oh,  only  one  grown-up,  surely. 

Frida.  (half  aloud).     Just  listen  to  father! 

Wangel.  But  now  you  shall  just  sit  quiet  and  have 
a  good  rest.  You  are  looking  rather  tired  after  your 
journey. 

Thea.  Shall  we  bring  a  little  soda-water  and  syrup 
into  the  garden-room  ?    It  will  soon  be  too  warm  out  here. 


"THE   LADY   FROM  THE  SEA"  345 

Wangel.  Yes,  do,  little  girls.  Soda-water  and  syrup. 
And  perhaps  a  little  cognac. 

Thea.     Cognac  too? 

Wangel.  Just  a  little.  In  case  any  one  should  care 
for  it. 

Thea.     Very  well. 

(She  and  Frida  go  into  the  garden-room  and  close 
the  door  behind  them.) 

Wangel  (seats  himself).  Are  you  thinking  of  taking 
a  regular  course  of  baths  here  ? 

Hesler.  Not  at  all.  I  have  no  need  of  that.  I  am 
just  going  to  be  idle  for  a  month.  And  not  think  about 
anything  at  all. 

Wangel.  And  not  overwork  yourself  again  when  you 
get  back. 

Hesler.  Well,  what  the  deuce  is  one  to  do  ?  When 
there  isn't  a  blessed  thing  on  earth  that's  worth  devoting 
one's  self  to  and  living  for,  it  makes  one  glad  that  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  work.     And  so  one  works  until  one  drops. 

Wangel.  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  bring  myself  to 
do  that. 

Hesler.     You  don't  care  for  it? 

Wangel.  Not  for  working  more  than  is  absolutely 
necessary. 

Hesler.  No,  no — of  course  you  have  other  things — ■ 
and  others — to  live  for. — Do  you  intend  to  remain  here 
for  the  rest  of  your  days  ? 

Wangel.  Oh  yes,  that's  what  it  will  come  to,  I  sup- 
pose. Here  I  have  lived  very  very  happily  with  her  who 
was  taken  from  us.  And  now  I  live  very  very  happily 
with  one  who  has  come  to  me  in  her  stead. — I  must  say 
that,  take  it  all  in  all,  the  fates  have  been  kind  to  me. 

Hesler.     Is  your  wife  not  at  home  to-day  ? 

Wangel.     Oh  yes,  she'll  be  here  very  soon.     She  has 


S46  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

gone  to  bathe.     She  never  misses  a  day  at  this  season;  no 
matter  what  the  weather  may  be. 
Hesler.     Is  she  out  of  health  ? 

Wangel.     No,  not  exactly;  but  she  has  been  curiously 
nervous  the  last  couple  of  years  or  so.     But  to  get  into 
the  sea  is  life  and  happiness  to  her. 
Hesler.     I  remember  that  of  old. 
Wangel.     Yes,  to  be  sure,  you  knew  her  when  you 
held  an  appointment  out  there. 

Hesler.     Of  course.     I  used  often  to  be  at  the  par- 
sonage while  her  father  was  alive. 

(Mrs.  Wangel,  with  a  large  light  cloak  over  her  head 
and  shoulders,  comes  along  the  path  from  the  right  and 
through  the  garden  gate.) 
Wangel  (rising) .     Ah,  here  comes  the  mermaid! 
(Mrs.  Wangel  goes  quickly  up  into  the  veranda. 
Hesler  rises  and  bows.) 


Hesler.  H'm — .  Have  you  ever  told  your  husband 
anything  about  me — about  you  and  me  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  No,  I  have  not.  I  don't  see  that  it 
was  my  duty.     For  it  never  came  to  anything  between  us. 

Hesler.  There  you  are  certainly  right.  But  I  mean, 
have  you  told  him  that  I  once  took  an  unsuccessful 
step ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Not  a  word  of  it.  I  have  only  told 
him  what  is  true — that  I  liked  you  very  much,  and  that 
you  were  the  truest  and  best  friend  I  had  out  there. 


Mrs.  Wangel.     But  you  do  not  know  that  I  was  en- 
gaged at  that  time. 

Hesler.     At  that  time — engaged! 


"THE   LADY  FROM  THE  SEA"         347 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Yes,  engaged,  as  it  is  called. 

Hesler.  But  that  is  impossible!  You  are  mistaking 
the  time.  I  don't  believe  you  knew  Wangel  then.  And 
anyhow  he  was  not  yet  a  widower. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  I  know  that,  my  dear  Hesler.  But  it 
is  not  Wangel  that  I  am  speaking  of. 

Hesler.  Not  Wangel!  Another  then!  But  at  that 
time — !  Out  there  in  the  solitude  by  the  open  sea — ; 
I  don't  remember  another  creature  that  I  could  conceive 
your 


Mrs.  Wangel.  Oh,  you  couldn't  conceive  the  possi- 
bility, even  if  I  told  you — .  No,  no — for  the  whole  thing 
was  such  utter  madness  on  my  part. 

Hesler.     Do  tell  me  more  about  this 

Mrs.  Wangel.  No,  no,  my  dear  Hesler — what 
would  be  the  use  ?  It  is  enough  for  you  to  know  that  I 
was  not  free  at  that  time.     And  now  you  do  know  it. 

Hesler.     And  if  you  had  been  free  at  that  time ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.     What  then  ? 

Hesler.     Would  your  answer  have  been  different? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  To  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,  I 
don't  think  it  would. 

Hesler.  Nor  I  either.  But  then,  what  is  the  use  of 
telling  me  this? 

Mrs.  Wangel  (rises  nervously) .  Because  I  must  have 
some  one  I  can  speak  to  about  it.     No,  no,  don't  rise. 

Hesler.     Wangel,  then,  knows  nothing  of  the  matter  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  No.  No  one  has  ever  known  any- 
thing. I  did  not  think  there  was  anything  to  tell  him. 
After  all,  it  was  nothing  but  the  maddest  of  madness;  and 
then  it  all  came  to  an  end  so  quickly.  Was  done  with. 
— At  least — in  a  way. 

Hesler  (rising).    Only  in  a  way?    Not  entirely! 


348  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Oh  yes,  of  course!  My  dear  good 
Hesler,  it  is  not  at  all  as  you  suppose.  It's  something 
quite  incomprehensible.  I  don't  think  I  could  find 
words  to  tell  you  of  it.  And  even  if  I  could,  you  would 
never  be  able  to  understand  it.  You  would  think  I  was 
ill — or  else  that  I  was  stark  mad. 

Hesler.  My  dear  Mrs.  Wangel — now  you  must  and 
shall  tell  me  the  whole  story. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Well  then — how  should  you,  with 
your  common  sense,  ever  be  able  to  understand  that — 
{Breaks  ojf.)  Wait — another  time — here  is  some  one 
coming. 

Lyngstrand.  Well,  you  see,  when  we  were  lying  in 
the  brig  over  in  Montreal,  we  had  to  leave  our  boatswain 
in  the  hospital;  so  we  shipped  an  American  in  his  place. 
And  then  we  put  to  sea.  We  were  bound  for  Spain. 
This  new  boatswain 

Mrs.  Wangel.     The  American  ? 

Lyngstrand.  Yes; — one  day  he  borrowed  from  the 
captain  a  bundle  of  old  newspapers  that  he  had  come 
across  somewhere.  There  were  many  Norwegian  papers 
among  them.     And  it  was  mostly  those  he  read. 

Mrs.  Wangel.     The  American  ? 

Hesler.     Did  he  know  Norwegian  ? 

Lyngstrand.  Yes,  he  knew  some.  He  had  sailed  to 
Norway,  he  said. 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Well;   and  then? 

Lyngstrand.  Well,  one  evening  it  was  blowing  great 
guns.  All  hands  were  on  deck — all  except  the  boatswain 
and  me.  For  he  had  sprained  his  ankle  and  couldn't 
walk;  and  I  wasn't  very  well  and  was  lying  in  my  bunk. 
Well,  there  he  sat  in  the  fo'c'sle,  reading  away  as  usual  at 
one  of  the  old  papers — 


"THE  LADY  FROM  THE  SEA"         349 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Was  it  a  Norwegian  paper? 

Lyngstrand.  Yes,  it  was  [I  don't  know].  And  [But] 
all  of  a  sudden,  I  heard  him  give  a  kind  of  a  roar.  And 
when  I  turned  and  looked  at  him.  I  saw  that  his  face  was 
as  white  as  chalk.  Then  he  sat  crumpling  and  crushing 
the  paper  up,  and  tearing  it  into  a  thousand  little  pieces. 
But  that  he  did  quite  quietly. 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Did  he  not  speak  at  all  ? 

Lyngstrand.  Not  at  first.  But  presently  he  looked 
at  me  and  said,  as  if  to  himself:  "She  has  gone  and  mar- 
ried another  man  while  I  was  away." 

Mrs.  Wangel  {half  to  herself).     Did  he  say  that? 

Lyngstrand.  Yes,  and  he  said  it  in  perfectly  good 
Norwegian.  He  must  have  been  a  Norwegian  after  all — ■ 
[must  have  sailed  in  Norwegian  ships,  I  should  think]. 


Mrs.  Wangel.  Well,  Mr.  Lyngstrand,  I  am  sure  you 
can  make  a  work  of  art  out  of  this. 

Lyngstrand.  Yes,  don't  you  think  so?  I  think  I 
must  be  able  to. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Is  the  dead  man  to  represent  what 
she  is  dreaming  of? 

Lyngstrand.  Oh  yes,  he  is.  But  then  he  is  to  be  a 
real  man  at  the  same  time. 

Hesler.  Who  is  drowned  and  has  come  home  after- 
wards ? 

Lyngstrand.  Yes,  I  had  thought  of  something  of  the 
sort.  But  I  find  it  so  difficult  to  explain  what  I  mean.  You 
will  be  able  to  understand  it  when  I  have  finished  the  work. 

Mrs.  Wangel  {with  slight  hesitation) .  How  long  may 
it  be  since  you  made  that  voyage  with  the  American  ? 

Lyngstrand.  Oh,  it's  a  long  while  ago  now,  Mrs. 
Wangel.     It's  more  than  two  years  ago.     We  left  America 


350  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

in  February  and  were  wrecked  in  March.  It  was  the 
equinoctial  gales  that  we  got  into. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Two  years,  do  you  say?  Yes,  tha* 
agrees. 

Hesler.     What,  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Oh  no,  it  was  only —  (Rises.)  It 
seems  to  me  so  hot  here.     Come,  let  us  go  in. 


Thea  and  Frida.     Ah! 

Wangel.     H'm — .    Well,  you  see,  my  dear  Thora 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Come  along,  girls!  Let  us  put  these 
up  among  the  others. 

Thea  and  Frida  (throwing  their  arms  around  her). 
Oh  you  dear — !     How  sweet  of  you! 

Wangel  (puts  his  arm  round  Iter).  Thank  you,  thank 
you!     I  thank  you  from  my  heart  for  this,  Thora! 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Oh,  nonsense — why  should  I  not 
join  with  you  in  keeping  mother's  birthday? 

(They  go  up  into  the  veranda,  in  joyful  excitement. 
Hesler  follows  them.) 

FROM  THE  SECOND  ACT 

Frida.  Pooh — supposing  it  is  true,  what — (Loofcs 
down).  Hullo — here  he  comes  with  them  in  tow!  Look 
there !  There  she  is,  walking  with  Hesler — not  with  father 
— and  jabbering  away  to  him!  I  wonder  whether  she 
isn't  a  bit  sweet  on  that  Hesler. 


Wangel  (smiling).  Well,  in  this  case  it  was  net  nec- 
essary to  ask  any  question.  I  scarcely  needed  to  be  told 
who  it  was 


"THE   LADY   FROM  THE  SEA"         351 
Mrs.  Wangel.     Could  you- 


W  angel.  — so  that  I  was  not  at  all  surprised  when 
at  last  he  came  here  again. 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Who,  who? 

Wangel.  To  be  sure,  he  wrote  that  it  was  because 
of  the  girls.  That  he  wanted  so  much  to  see  them 
again 

Mrs.  Wangel  (jestingly).  Oh,  then  he  was  careful 
of  what  he  said. 

Wangel.  You  too  were  a  girl  when  he  last  saw  you. 
And  so  you  must  have  remained  in  his  recollection. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  But,  my  dear  Wangel,  I  assure 
you. .     I  beg  you ! 

Wangel.  Be  quite  easy  about  it.  I  shall  not  let  him 
see  anything.  Hesler  is  a  good  and  faithful  friend  of 
mine.  I  rely  on  him  with  as  much  confidence  as  I  do 
on  yourself. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  That  you  may  certainly  do.  But  I 
tell  you — it  was  not  Hesler. 

Wangel.  H'm,  how  obstinate  you  can  be  at  times. 
Wasn't  Hesler  tutor  out  there  on  the  island  the  winter 
before  he  came  to  us? 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Yes,  he  was. 

Wangel.  Well.  And  wasn't  it  just  that  winter  that 
this  took  place,  this  affair  of  the  engagement  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Yes,  you're  right  there  again. 

Wangel.  Very  well.  Then  will  you  tell  me,  my 
dear  good  Thora,  whether  at  that  time  there  was  any  other 
decent,  respectable  unmarried  man  out  there,  to  whom 
this  might  refer? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  No.  There  was  certainly  no  such 
person .  — But ■ 

Wangel.     But ? 


352  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Well,  now  I  must  and  will  tell  you. 
It  was  not  any  decent,  respectable  man 

Wangel  (starts  up) .     Not  any  decent,  respectable 1 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Not  one  that  you  would  call  so. 

Wangel.  What  is  there  behind  all  this?  Let  me 
hear  the  whole  story. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Do  you  remember  that,  in  the  late 
autumn  one  year,  a  large  American  ship  came  into 
Skioldvik  fcr  repairs? 

Wangel.  Yes,  I  remember  it  well.  It  was  on  board 
her  that  the  captain  was  found  murdered  in  his  cabin 
one  morning.  I  remember  going  to  make  the  post-mor- 
tem. 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Yes,  I  know  you  did. 

Wangel.  It  was  an  ordinary  seaman  who  had  killed 
him. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  No  one  can  tell  that!  It  was  never 
proved. 

Wangel.  There  is  no  doubt  about  it.  Why,  he  ran 
away  immediately  afterwards.  Though,  to  be  sure,  some 
people  thought  he  had  gone  and  drowned  himself. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  He  did  not.  He  escaped  in  a  vessel 
bound  for  the  north. 

Wangel  (starts) .     How  do  you  know  that  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Because,  Wangel — because  it  was 
that  ordinary  seaman  to  whom  I  was  betrothed. 

Wangel.     What  do  you  say  ?     Can  this  be  possible  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Yes,  he  was  the  man. 

Wangel.  But  how  in  the  world,  Thora — !  And  as 
far  as  I  remember  he  was  nothing  but  a  lad  at  the  time. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Oh  no,  he  was  at  any  rate  a  year  or 
two  older  than  I.     But  we  were  both  young,  of  course. 

Wangel.  And  you  went  and  engaged  yourself  to  him! 
What  was  his  name  ? 


"THE  LADY  FROM  THE  SEA"         358 

Mrs.  Wangel.     He  called  himself  Johnson. 

Wangel.     Where  did  he  come  from? 

Mrs.  Wangel.     I  don't  know. 

Wangel.  But  you  can  tell  whether  he  was  a  Nor- 
wegian or  a  foreigner? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  I  don't  know  for  certain.  He  spoke 
good  Norwegian.  But  there  was  something  foreign  about 
it. 

Wangel.     Then  did  you  never  ask  him? 


Mrs.  Wangel.  No,  not  very  often.  Not  so  much  as 
five  times  altogether,  I  think.  For  then  came  this  affair 
about  the  captain;   and  he  had  to  go  away. 

Wangel.     Oh  yes,  let  me  hear  about  that. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Early  one  morning,  in  the  dusk,  I 
got  a  line  from  him,  and  it  said  that  I  must  come  out  to 
him  at  Bakkehammer — you  know,  the  headland  between 
the  parsonage  and  Skioldvik 

Wangel.     Yes,  yes — I  know. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  — I  must  come  there  immediately, 
for  he  wanted  to  speak  to  me. 

Wangel.     And  you  went? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Yes,  you  may  be  sure  I  did — then. 
Well,  he  said  that  he  had  stabbed  the  captain  in  the 
night 

Wangel.     He  told  you  himself!     Straight  out! 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Yes.  But  he  had  only  done  what 
was  right  and  just,  he  said. 

Wangel.  Right  and  just?  What  reason  did  he 
give,  then,  for  stabbing  him? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  He  would  not  tell  me  the  reason. 
He  said  it  was  not  a  thins:  for  me  to  hear  about. 


854  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Wangel.     And  you  believed  him? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Yes,  you  may  be  sure  I  did — then. 
Well,  he  had  to  go  away.  But  when  he  was  on  the  point 
of  saying  good-bye  to  me,  he  did  a  strange  thing.  He 
did  it  quite  calmly  and  quietly.  For  that  was  his  way. 
Always  calm  and  quiet. 

Wangel.     What  was  it  he  did  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  He  took  a  key-ring  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  drew  off  his  finger  a  ring  he  used  to  wear.  Then  he 
took  from  me  a  little  ring  that  I  had,  and  these  two  he 
fastened  together  on  the  key-ring.  Then  he  said  that 
now  we  two  should  together  be  wedded  to  the  sea. 

Wangel.     Wedded ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Yes,  so  he  said.  And  then  he 
flung  the  large  ring  and  the  two,  small  ones  far,  far  out 
into  the  sea.     Don't  you  think  that  was  stranger 

Wangel.     And  you — ?     Did  you  agree  to  that? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Yes,  would  you  believe  it,  at  the  time 
I  only  thought  that  it  was  something — that  it  was  all  as 
it  should  be.     But  then  he  went  away. 

Wangel.     And  when  once  he  was  away? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Oh,  good  heavens, you  can  understand, 
my  dear,  that  I  soon  saw  how  utterly  foolish  and  stupid 
and  meaningless  the  whole  thing  had  been. 

Wangel.  Yes,  yes.  But  was  that  the  end  of  it? 
Did  you  never  hear  from  him  afterwards  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Yes,  I  heard  from  him. 

Wangel.     He  wrote ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Yes.  As  soon  as  he  reached  England 
I  got  a  line  or  two  from  him.  He  said  he  was  going  on 
to  America,  and  told  me  where  to  address  a  letter. 

Wangel.     Did  you  write  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Immediately.  I  said,  of  course,  that 
all  must  be  over  between  us — that  he  must  never  think 


"THE   LADY   FROM   THE   SEA"  355 

of  me  again,  as  I  meant  never  to  think  any  more  of 
him. 

Wangel.     Did  he  stop  then? 

Mrs.  Wangel.     No. 

Wangel.     He  wrote  again. 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Yes,  he  wrote  again. 

Wangel.  And  what  was  his  answer  to  what  you  had 
said  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Not  a  word.  He  wrote  just  as  if  I 
had  never  broken  with  him.  He  told  me  quite  calmly 
that  I  must  wait  for  him.  When  he  was  ready  for  me  he 
would  let  me  know,  and  then  I  was  to  come  to  him  at 
once. 

Wangel.     He  would  not  release  you  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  No.  So  I  wrote  again,  almost  word 
for  word  the  same  as  before:   only  more  strongly. 

Wangel.     And  did  he  give  way? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Oh,  no,  far  from  it.  He  wrote  as 
calmly  as  before.  Never  a  word  about  my  having  broken 
with  him.  Then  I  saw  it  was  useless,  so  I  wrote  to  him 
no  more. 

Wangel.     But  he ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  I  have  had  three  letters  from  him 
since.  Once  he  wrote  from  California  and  once  from 
China.  The  last  letter  I  got  from  him  was  from  Austra- 
lia. He  said  he  was  going  to  the  gold-mines;  since  then 
I  have  heard  nothing  more  from  him. 

Wangel.  That  man  must  have  had  an  extraordinary 
power  over  you,  Thora. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Oh  yes,  yes.  That  dreadful  man! 
Oh,  how  happy  and  secure  I  felt  when  you  and  I  came 
together.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  you  had  saved  me  from 
myself — and  from  something  terrible  both  within  me  and 
without. 


356  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Wangel.  (in  a  low  voice).  Yes,  we  were  happy  in- 
deed— the  first  three  years. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Yes,  yes,  we  were.  And  then — to 
think  of  it — then  this — this  other  thing  was  to  come  over 
me. 

Wangel.  This  mental  ailing,  you  mean  ?  Yes,  it  is 
hard.  Hard  for  us  both.  But  do  try  now  to  calm  your- 
self, my  dear,  my  precious  Thora.  We  will  try  another 
cure  for  you  now.  A  fresher  air  than  in  here.  The  salt- 
laden,  sweeping  sea-breezes,  dear!  What  do  you  say  to 
that? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Oh,  don't  speak  of  it!  Don't  think  of 
such  a  thing!  There  is  no  help  for  me  in  that.  I  know, 
I  feel,  that  I  should  not  be  able  to  throw  it  off  out  there 
either.  , 

Wangel.  To  throw  off  what,  dear?  What  do  you 
mean? 

Mrs.  Wangel  (as  though  brooding  over  something).  I 
mean  the  terror  of  him. 

Wangel.  Yes,  but  what  is  it  after  all  that  is  so  terrible 
to  you  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel  (looking  at  him  despondingly) .  What 
I  have  just  told  you. 

Wangel.  Well — terrible  ?  But  would  you  really  call 
it  so  ?  No  doubt  that  man  once  exercised  a  tremendous 
power  over  you.  That  one  can  easily  understand.  But 
such  a  thing  is  not  nearly  so  rare  as  you  seem  to  think. 
I  have  had  opportunities  of  observing  several  similar 
cases.  And  besides — you  had  the  strength  to  break  it 
all  off.  To  put  an  end  to  it  as  soon  as  you  were  able  to 
reflect  a  little.  What  is  there  left  to  brood  over?  It  is 
all  over,  long  ago. 

Mrs.  Wangel  (springs  up).  No,  that  is  just  what  it 
is  not!     And  that  is  the  terror  of  it! 


"THE   LADY   FROM   THE   SEA"  357 

Wangel.     Not  over! 

Mrs.  Wangel.  No,  it  is  not  over!  And  I  am  afraid 
it  never  will  be  over.  Never  in  this  life.  That  is  what 
is  so  terrible  to  think  of. 

Wangel  (in  a  low,  agitated  voice).  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  you  have  never  in  your  heart  of  hearts  been  able 
to  forget  him? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  No,  there  was  a  time  whe^  he  came 
to  mean  nothing  to  me.  It  was  just  as  though  he  had 
never  existed.  Oh,  I  felt  so  free  and  relieved  for  those 
three  years.  They  were  the  first  three  years  I  lived  here 
with  you,  Wangel. 

Wangel  (in  suspense).  And  now — !  Do  you  mean 
then  that  now  it  has  come  over  you  again  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Yes,  now  it  has  come  again.  With 
frightful  force.     It  came  like  this  two  years  ago. 

Wangel  (painfully  moved).  Ah!  Two  years  ago? 
That  was  it!  In  that  case,  Thora,  I  begin  to  understand 
much  more  clearly. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  You  are  wrong,  dear — this  thing  that 
has  come  over  me — oh,  I  don't  think  it  can  ever  be  under- 
stood ! 

Wangel  (half  to  himself) .  To  think  that  for  two  years 
her  heart  has  been  given  to  a  strange  man.  To  another! 
Not  to  me — but  to  another! 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Yes,  yes,  to  you!  To  you  alone!  To 
no  one  in  the  whole  world. 

Wangel.  Oh,  Thora!  Oh  yes,  yes,  I  knew  that. 
But  what  is  it  then — .  What  is  it  between  you  and  the 
strange  man ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.     It  is  the  dread  he  casts  over  me ■ 

Wangel.     Dread  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Yes,  a  dread.     Such  a  dread,  such  a 


358  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

terror,  as  arises  only  from  the  sea.     For  now  I  must  tell 

you,  Wangel ■ 

(Young  people,  men  and  girls,  come  in  from  the  left, 
some  in  couples,  some  in  groups.  A  few  tourists 
among  them.  Finally  Hesler,  Lyngstrand, 
Thea  and  Frida  come.  They  are  no  longer  walk- 
ing arm  in  arm.) 


Wangel.  Dear  Thora — why  did  you  cross-question 
him  about  that  voyage? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Because  I  believe — .  (Breaking  out.) 
Now  I  have  learnt  something  about  Johnson. 

Wangel.     What  have  you  learnt  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Johnson  was  on  board  the  ship  in 
which  Lyngstrand  was  wrecked.  Of  that  I  am  perfectly 
certain. 

Wangel.     My  dear,  what  makes  you  think  so? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Something  Lyngstrand  mentioned 
this  morning.  Johnson  came  to  know,  during  the  voy- 
age— in  some  way  or  other — I  don't  know  how.  He 
came  to  know  that  I  had  married.  Had  married  while  he 
was  away.     And  then  this  came! 

Wangel.     What  came? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  That  Johnson  all  at  once  became  so 
fearfully  present  to  me.  I  seemed  to  see  him  before  me 
wherever  I  went. 

Wangel.  Did  he  appear  to  you  as  you  had  seen  him 
in  reality? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  No,  I  don't  see  him  like  that.  Not 
so  young  as  he  was  then.  I  see  him  older.  And  I  see 
him  with  a  beard.  A  reddish  beard.  He  did  not  have 
a  beard  then.  There  is  one  thing  especially  that  I  see 
with  such  fearful  clearness. 


"THE   LADY   FROM   THE   SEA"  359 


Wangel.     Now 


Mrs.  Wangel.  He  always  wears  a  red  neck-cloth 
and  it  is  fastened  with  a  large,  bluish-white  pearl — a 

scarf-pin,  you  know 

Wangel.     Yes,  yes. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  And  when  I  think  of  that  pin,  it 
seems  to  turn  into  a  dead  fish's  eye,  that  looks  at  me. 
Looks  fixedly  at  me. 

Wangel.  Good  God — .  You  are  more  ill  than  I 
thought;  more  ill  than  you  know  yourself,  Thora.  And 
you  have  been  in  this  state  for  over  two  years.  You  have 
suffered  this  secret  anguish  without  confiding  in  me. 

Mrs.  Wangel.  Oh,  how  could  I  have  the  heart  to 
do  that.  In  you!  In  you,  whom  I  love  so  dearly.  But 
now  I  must  tell  you  all.  For  I  feel  it  closing  round  me 
more  and  more.  Therefore  I  must  now  tell  you  the  most 
fearful  thing  of  all. 

Wangel.     Yes,  tell  me  that — do  tell  me  that! 

Mrs.  Wangel.     The  most  fearful  thing  is  that  when 

the  strange  man  became  so  living  to  me,  then — Oh 

Wangel.     Then  ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.     Then  I  seemed  to  lose  you,  Wangel! 

Wangel.     Lose  ?     How ? 

Mrs.  Wangel.  WTien  you  were  [are]  not  present,  I 
could  [can]  no  longer  recall  [retain]  your  appearance. 
It  was  [is]  the  strange  man  that  I  saw  [see]  instead  of 
you. 

Wangel.  Explain  yourself  more  clearly,  Thora. 
Mrs.  Wangel.  I  mean  that  when  you  are  out  in  a 
boat  and  a  storm  comes  on  and  I  am  waiting  here  in  mor- 
tal fear  for  you,  it  is  not  you  that  I  picture  to  myself  in 
the  boat — .  Or  rather,  it  is  you,  but  I  see  you  in  the 
likeness  of  the  strange  man. — And  then  the  unspeakable. 
Wangel.    The  unspeakable ? 


360  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Wangel.  No,  no,  no! —  Only  one  thing  more, 
and  I  have  done.  Wangel — how  shall  we  fathom — that 
about  the  child's  eyes 


FROM   THE  THIRD  ACT 

Thora  (softly  and  trembling).  Oh,  do  you  hear  that, 
Wangel?     He  is  coming  back! 

Wangel.  Do  not  be  alarmed.  We  shall  find  means 
to  prevent  it. 

The  Stranger.  Good-bye  for  the  present,  Thora. 
To-morrow  evening  then. 

Thora  {with  a  shriek).  Dort't  look  at  me  like  that! 
Oh,  the  eyes,  the  eyes! 

Wangel.     The  eyes!     What  do  you  mean  by  that 

The  Stranger.  And  if  by  that  time  you  should  be  of 
a  mind  to  come  with  me 

Thora.     Never!     Never  to  the  end  of  time!     Never! 

The  Stranger.  I  only  mean  that  in  that  case  you 
must  be  ready  to  start.  To-morrow  evening  then,  you 
understand. 

Thora.     Never,  I  say!     Go,  go! 

Wangel.     Go  into  the  house,  Thora! 

Thora.     I  cannot.     Oh,  help  me!     Save  me,  Wangel ! 

The  Stranger.  For  you  must  remember  this,  that 
if  you  do  not  come  with  me  this  time,  it  will  be  too  late. 

Thora.     Too  late ? 

The  Stranger.  Beyond  recall,  Thora.  I  shall  never 
return  to  these  parts.  You  will  never  see  me  any  more 
nor  hear  from  me  either.  I  shall  be  as  though  dead  and 
gone  from  you,  for  evermore. 

Thora  {breathing  as  though  relieved) .     Ah ! 


"THE   LADY   FROM   THE   SEA"  361 

The  Stranger.  So  think  carefully  what  you  do. 
Good-bye.  (He  climbs  over  tJie  fence,  stops,  and  says:) 
Well,  Thora — be  ready  to  start  to-morrow  evening;  for 
then  I  will  come  and  take  you  away. 

(He  goes  slowly  and  calmly  along  the  footpath  and  out 
to  the  right.) 

Thora  (looks  after  him  a  while).  Oh,  that  terrible 
creature! 

Wangel.  Be  calm,  be  calm.  He  is  gone  now,  and 
you  shall  never  see  him  again. 

Thora.  Oh,  how  can  you  say  that?  He  is  coming 
again  to-morrow  [night]. 

Wangel.  Let  him  come:  I  will  see  that  he  does 
not  meet  you. 

Thora.  Do  you  think  you  can  prevent  that  ?  Oh,  I 
don't  know  any  place  on  earth  where  I  can  be  safe  from 
him. 

Wangel.  Before  all  else  you  must  try  to  get  him  out 
>f  your  ailing  mind. 

Thora.  Yes,  yes,  if  I  only  could.  (Looking  away.) 
So  sure  he  was  that  I  would  go  with  him. —  Have  you 
ever  heard  or  seen  a  man  so  sure  as  he  is,  Wangel! 

Wangel.  You  must  put  him  out  of  your  thoughts,  I 
say. 

Thora.     Yes,  if  one  only  could. 

Wangel.  You  must!  You  must!  You  don't  know 
what  it  may  lead  to  otherwise. 

Thora  (musing) .  When  he  has  been  here — to-morrow 
evening — .  And  [when]  he  has  gone  away  in  the 
steamer . 

Wangel.     Well,  what  then  ? 

Thora.     Do  you  think  he  will  never  come  again  ? 

Wangel.  No,  dear  Thora,  you  may  feel  absolutely 
secure  on  that  point. 


36<?  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Thora.  Never  again  ?  Never  as  long  as  life  lasts. 
Do  you  think  that? 

Wangel.  That  I  am  certain  of.  You  will  never  see 
him  again. 

Thora  (involuntarily).     Never 

Wangel.  How  can  you  be  afraid  of  that?  WThat 
could  he  do  here  after  this  ?  Do  look  at  it  reasonably, 
dear.  He  has  heard  now,  from  your  own  lips,  that  you 
will  have  nothing  tr»  do  with  him. 

Thora.  No.  That  is  certain.  To-morrow  even- 
ing— .     And  then  never  again. 


FROM  THE   FOURTH  ACT 

Wangel.  Ted  me,  Mr.  Lyngstrand — that  American 
you  were  speaking  of  yesterday — do  you  know  much 
about  him  ? 

Lyngstrand.  Nc,  not  much.  Only  that  we  were 
shipmates  one  voyage. 

Wangel.     Do  you  remember  his  name? 

Lyngstrand.  Yes,  it  was  Frimann,  or  something  like 
that. 

Wangel.  And  then  he  shipped  as  nothing  more  than 
boatswain. 

Lyngstrand.  Yes,  it  was  a  boatswain  we  happened 
to  want.  And  he  wanted  to  get  across.  So  he  took  the 
berth. 

Wangel.     Now  he  is  travelling  as  a  tourist,  it  seems. 

Lyngstrand.     Did  you  see  him  too,  Doctor? 

Wangel.  I  saw  a  stranger  pass  below  there.  It  must 
have  been  he. —  Tell  me,  what  sort  of  a  man  did  you 
think  he  was  ?  I  mean,  when  you  were  shipmates  with 
him, 


"THE   LADY   FROM   THE   SEA"  363 

Lyngstrand.  He  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  quiet,  calm 
man.     But  very  determined. 

Wangel.     Very  determined  ? 

Lyngstrand.  Yes,  he  was.  But  that  was  in  a  quiet 
way,  too.  I  only  remember  one  time  when  he  became 
quite  ungovernable. 

Wangel.  Oh  yes.  That  time  you  were  speaking  of 
yesterday . 

Lyngstrand.  — that  I  am  going  to  put  into  sculp- 
ture, yes.  I  am  so  glad  both  you  and  Mrs.  Wangel 
think  so  well  of  that  idea. 

Wangel.     How — ?     Oh  yes,  yes. 

(He  goes  over  t)  Hesler,  who  is  standing  by  the 
piano.) 

Annette  (softly  to  Lyngstrand).  I'll  wager  my  life 
it  was  the  strange  man  who  came  and  enquired. 

Lyngstrand.     For  Mrs.  Wangel! 

Annette.     I  don't  know  whom  he  enquired  for. 

Lyngstrand.  Yes,  it  was  Mrs.  Wangel.  But  what 
on  earth ! 

Annette.     Well,  come  along.     Come  along. 

(She  and  Lyngstrand  go  with  Frida  d  ncn  through 
the  garden.) 

Wangel  (to  Hesler).  Have  you  given  any  more 
thought  to  it? 

Hesler.  I  have  thought  of  nothing  else,  ever  since  we 
parted. 

Wangel.  And  what  do  you  think  I  ought  to  do  in  the 
matter  ? 

Hesler.  My  dear  Doctor,  I  think  that  you,  as  a 
phvsician,  ought  to  know  better  than  I. 

Wangel.  H'm.  This  is  no  common  disorder.  And 
no  case  for  an  ordinary  physician — pr  for  ordinary  reme- 
dies. 


364  FROM   IBSEN'S    WORKSHOP 

Hesler.     How  is  she  to-day? 

Wangel.  I  have  just  been  up  to  see  her,  and  she  ap- 
peared to  me  quite  calm.  But  behind  all  her  moods 
something  seems  to  be  hidden  that  eludes  me  entirely. 
And  then  she  is  so  variable,  so  incalculable,  so  subject 
to  sudden  changes. 

Hesler.  No  doubt  that  is  due  to  her  morbid  state  of 
mind. 

Wangel.  Not  entirely.  The  germ  of  it  all  is  innate 
in  her.  Thora  belongs  to  the  sea-folk:  that  is  the 
trouble. 

Hesler.  What  do  you  mean  precisely,  my  dear 
Doctor  ? 

Wangel.  The  people  who  live  out  by  the  open  sea 
are  like  a  race  apart.  Widely  different  from  the  people 
of  the  fiords.  Out  there  they  *live  the  life  of  the  sea. 
And  they  never  bear  transplantation.  I  should  have 
thought  of  that  before.  It  was  a  sin  against  her  to  take 
her  away  from  the  sea  and  bring  her  in  here. 

Hesler.     Have  you  come  to  look  at  it  in  that  light  ? 

Wangel.  Yes,  more  and  more.  Especially  in  the 
last  year  or  two. — But  I  ought  to  have  known  it  from  the 
first.  I  ought  to  have  known  that  she  would  inevitably 
pine  and  languish  in  here.  Oh,  I  did  know  it  too,  but  I 
would  not  acknowledge  it.  I  loved  her  so  much.  And 
consequently  I  thought  first  of  myself.  In  fact,  I  was 
utterly  and  unpardonably  selfish. 

Hesler.  I  am  afraid  every  one  is  selfish  under  those 
circumstances.  But  I  can't  say  that  I  have  noticed  that 
vice  in  you. 

Wangel.     Oh  yes.     But  I  try  to  fight  against  it. 

Hesler.  Let  us  speak  frankly.  Was  it  mutual  affec- 
tion that  brought  you  and  her  together? 

Wangel.     No,  I  can't  say  it  was.     Not  that  kind  of 


"THE   LADY   FROM  THE  SEA"         365 

feeling  on  her  side.  When  her  father  was  drowned — her 
mother  was  subject  to  melancholy,  you  know — the  new 
lighthouse-keeper  was  expected.  They  had  to  leave 
the  house.  Oh,  I  ought  never  to  have  availed  myself  of 
her  helpless  situation.     But  I  did  so  nevertheless. 

Hesler.     And  it  was  only  gradually  that  you  won  her  ? 

Wangel.  I  thought  at  any  rate  that  I  had  won  her. 
There  seemed  to  be  signs  of  that.  But  then  this  melan- 
choly came  upon  her.  Oh,  what  remorse  I  felt.  For  I 
was  to  blame.  I  had  taken  her  by  surprise.  Almost 
by  force,  I  may  say.  For,  you  see,  she  had  no  choice. 
And  I  was  at  my  wits'  end  to  know  what  to  do. —  That 
is  why  I  turned  to  you  in  my  perplexity,  and  asked  you 
to  come  to  us. 

Hesler.  Yes,  my  dear  Doctor,  but  what  good  did 
you  suppose  /  could  do?     I  don't  understand. 

Wangel.  No.  For  I  had  got  upon  a  wrong  scent. 
I  fancied  that  she  had  once  cared  for  you,  and  that  she 
still  secretly  cared  for  you.  So  I  thought  it  might  per- 
haps do  her  good  to  see  you  again. 

Hesler.  Then  it  was  your  wife  you  meant  when  you 
wrote  that  some  one  here  was  waiting  for  me! 

Wangel.     Yes;   who  else? 

Hesler.     Of  course.     But  I  did  not  understand  you. 

Wangel.     Naturally  not.     I  was  on  a  wrong  scent. 

Hesler.  Then,  although  you  thought  your  wife  had 
an  inclination  for  me — cared  for  me — you  nevertheless 
wrote  for  me.     Asked  me  to  come  here 

Wangel.  I  was  bent  upon  seeing  her  cheerful  again. 
Rejecting  no  expedient.     Come  of  it  what  might. 

Hesler.     And  you  think  you  are  selfish 

Wangel.  Oh,  I  had  such  a  great  error  to  atone  for. 
But  don't  tell  her  I  wrote  for  you.  She  believes  you 
came  here  of  your  own  accord.     Tell  her  nothing. 


366  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hesler.  Not  a  word,  since  you  wish  it.  Well,  after 
all,  it  was  a  good  thing  I  came  here.  That  the  misunder- 
standing was  cleared  up.  For  now  you  know  that  her 
heart  is  not  with  any  other  man. 

Wangel.  No,  it  is  wholly  and  solely  the  dread  of  this 
stranger  that  haunts  her  thus. 

Hesler.  How  do  you  explain  the  power  he  exercises 
over  her? 

Wangel.  H'm,  my  dear  friend,  there  are  sides  to  that 
question  that  don't  admit  of  explanation. 

Hesler.  Something  inexplicable,  do  you  mean  ?  En- 
tirely inexplicable  ? 

Wangel.  Inexplicable  to  the  understanding  of  our 
time,  at  any  rate.     To  the  science  of  our  time. 

Hesler.     Do  you  believe  in -such  things? 

Wangel.  I  neither  believe  nor  disbelieve.  I  simply 
do  not  know.  So  I  suspend  my  judgment.  [For  I  am 
not  really  a  man  of  science,  I  must  tell  you.     I  have ] 

Hesler.  But  tell  me — .  That  strange,  uncanny  idea 
of  hers  about  the  child's  eyes ? 

Wangel  (eagerly).  I  don't  in  the  least  believe  that 
about  the  eyes.  That  is  pure  imagination  on  her  part. 
I  take  that  to  be  nothing  but  an  outcome  of  her  morbid 
nervous  condition.     Nothing  else! 

Hesler.  But  then  the  other  point:  that  this  haunt- 
ing fear,  this  dread  and  unrest  came  upon  her  just  at  the 
very  time  when  this  stranger  would  seem  to  have  been 
on  his  way  home? 

Wangel.  Well,  that  again  is  a  belief  she  has  imagined 
and  dreamt  herself  into,  since  the  day  before  yesterday. 
It  did  not  come  upon  her  at  all  so  suddenly,  so  instan- 
taneously, as  she  now  maintains.  But  since  she  heard 
from  this  young  Lyngstrand  that  Johnson,  or  whatever 
he  is  called,  was  on  his  way  home  three  years  ago  in 


"THE   LADY   FROM   THE   SEA"  367 

March,  she  believes  that  her  mental  suffering  came  over 
her  in  the  very  same  month. 

Hesler.     And  did  it  [not]  ? 

Wangel.  Not  at  all.  It  had  been  noticeable  long 
before  that.  It  is  true  she  had  a  sharp  attack  precisely 
in  the  month  of  March,  three  years  ago 

Hesler.     Well  then ! 

Wangel.  Oh,  but  that  is  quite  easily  accounted  for 
by  the  circumstances — the  condition — she  happened  to 
be  in  at  that  time. 

Hesler.  The  indications  may  be  read  in  either  way, 
then. 

Wangel.  And  to  be  powerless  to  help  her!  To  have 
neither  resource  nor  remedy! 

Hesler.  What  if  you  made  up  your  mind  to  a  change 
of  residence — to  move  to  some  other  place,  where  you 
would  live  under  wider,  less  restricted  conditions  ? 

Wtangel.  I  have  suggested  that  to  her.  But  she  will 
not. 

Hesler.     Not  that  either. 

(Goes  up  towards  the  ivindow  on  the  left.) 

Wangel.  Oh,  I  should  be  so  glad  to  make  any  possi- 
ble sacrifice. 

(Tora  enters  by  the  door  on  the  left.) 

Tora  (rapidly  to  Wangel).  Be  sure  you  do  not  go 
out  this  morning! 

Wangel.  No,  no,  certainly  not;  I  will  stay  at  home 
with  you.  (Points  to  Hesler.)  But  you  haven't  said 
good  morning ? 

Tora  Q,urns).  Oh,  are  you  there,  Mr.  Hesler!  (Holds 
out  her  hand.)     Good  morning. 

Hesler.  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Wangel.  So  you're 
not  bathing  to-day? 


368  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Tora.  No,  no.  Don't  speak  to  me  of  bathing.  The 
water  is  sickly  here  in  the  fiord.     Won't  you  sit  down  ? 

Hesler.  No,  thank  you.  Not  now.  (Looks  at 
Wangel.)  I  promised  the  girls  I  would  join  them  in 
the  garden. 

Wangel.     Well,  my  dear  friend — I  won't  keep  you. 

Tora.     You  will  probably  find  them  by  the  pond. 

Hesler.     I  shall  find  them,  I'm  sure. 

(He  nods  and  passes  across  the  veranda  and  out  to 
the  right.) 

Wangel  (rising) .  Then  have  the  years  we  have  lived 
together  been  utterly  wasted  for  you  ? 

Tora.  Oh,  don't  think  that.  I  have  had  all  from 
you  that  any  one  could  possibly  desire.  But  the  years 
have  given  me  a,clearer  insight.  The  sense  of  shame  has 
awakened  in  me.  I  see  it  now — the  life  we  lead  is  no  real 
and  true  marriage. 

Wangel.     I  can  strengthen  you  in  fighting  against  it. 

Tora.     Yes,  if  I  had  the  will  to  fight  against  it. 

Wangel.     Have  you  not  the  will  ? 

Tora.     Oh,  that  is  just  what  I  don't  know. 

Wangel.  You  must  try  to  make  sure  of  yourself. 
The  decision  is  to-night. 

Tora.  Yes,  think  of  it — !  The  decision  so  near. 
The  decision  for  all  time. 

Wangel.  To-morrow  he  will  be  gone.  Then  you 
will  be  free  [of  him].  [And  then  you  will  be  free  of  all 
your  doubts ] 

Tora.  Perhaps  I  shall  have  forfeited  my  true  fu- 
ture. 

Wangel.     Your  true ? 


"THE  LADY  FROM  THE  SEA"         369 

Tora.     A  life  of  freedom  forfeited! 

Wangel.     Tora — do  you  love  this  man  [stranger]? 

Tora.     Do  I—?     Oh  how  can  I  tell. 

Wangel.     That  you  must  try  to  find  out. 

Tora.  It  is  no  use.  I  only  know  that  to  me  he  is 
mysterious,  and  that oh! 

Wangel.     — and  that ? 

Tora.  — and  that  I  feel  as  though  my  place  were  with 
him. 

Wangel.     I  begin  to  understand. 

Tora.  And  what  help  have  you  for  me?  What 
remedy  do  you  know  of  ? 

Wangel.  To-morrow.  He  will  be  gone.  Then  you 
will  be  safe  from  disaster;  then  I  promise  to  set  you  free. 
We  will  cancel  the  bargain,  Tora! 

Tora.     Oh  Wangel ! 

Wangel  (looks  out  into  the  garden).  More  another 
time. 

(Arenholdt,  Annette,  Lyngstrand,  Frida,  and 
Ballested  appear  behind  the  arbour.  Ballested 
is  carrying  his  painting  materials.) 

Arenholdt  (coming  up  on  to  the  veranda).  Ah,  I 
can  tell  you  we  have  been  laying  great  plans. 

Frida.  We  want  to  go  out  in  a  boat  this  evening, 
and 

Lyngstrand.     [B.]     No,  no,  don't  tell! 

Wangel.     We  two  have  also  been  laying  plans. 

Arenholdt.     No,  really? 

Wangel.     My  wife  is  going  to  Skioldvik  for  a  time. 

Annette.     Going  away? 

Arenholdt.     That  is  very  wise. 

Wangel.  Tora  wants  to  go  home  again;  home  to  the 
sea. 


370  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Lyngstrand.     "The  Lady  from  the  Sea."     Yes,  one 
can  understand  that. 

Ballested.     Understand  it  perfectly.  The  dying  mer- 
maid on  the  dry  land 

Tora.     Why  do  you  call  me  that! 
Ballested.     Oh  no.     I  was  only  thinking  of  my  pic- 
ture.    Good-bye,  good-bye. 

{Goes  out  by  the  garden  gate.) 
Frida  {softly  to  Annette).     Now  they've  been  having 
another  conference. 

{A  maid-servant  opens  the  door  on  the  right.) 
Wangel.     To  table.     Come  along,  Arenholdt!     We 
will  drink  a  parting  cup  with  "the  lady  from  the  sea." 
{They  all  go  towards  the  door  on  the  right.) 


FROM   THE   FIFTH  ACT 

Ellida.  I  must  speak  with  him  my?elf.  If  you  will 
not  set  me  free,  then  he  must  do  so.  One  of  the  marriages 
must  be  dissolved. 

Wangel.  You  yourself  have  dissolved  the  relation- 
ship that  in  your  morbid  excitability  you  call  a  marriage. 
You  have  dissolved  it  and  that  is  enough. 

Ellida.  No,  no,  that  is  not  enough.  What  is  the 
use  of  your  putting  forward  a  thousand  rational  argu- 
ments. It  does  not  help  me  in  the  least,  if  my  own  feel- 
ings are  different. 

Wangel.     And  they  are  so  still. 

Ellida.  They  will  always  be  so.  I  shall  always  feel 
as  I  do  now.  I  am  not  made  like  you.  You  can  lead 
your  life  of  reality  here  with  me,  and  feel  secure  and  happy 
in  it — and  at  the  same  time  continue  to  live  with  your 
memories. 


"THE   LADY   FROM   THE   SEA"  371 

Wangel.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  make  you  understand 
how  immensely  different  the  two  things  are! 

Ellida.  Not  to  me.  I  cannot  lead  such  a  dual  ex- 
istence. I  cannot  continue  in  it  any  longer.  Impossi- 
ble! Perfectly  impossible.  Either  wholly  with  you  or 
wholly  with  him! 

Wangel,.  All  these  are  confused  feminine  ideas, 
Ellida!  Confused  feminine  fancies.  What  do  you  gain 
by  his  releasing  you  from  your  promise,  as  you  call  it. 
Does  that  make  you  free  ?  Do  you  suppose  it  will  break 
the  power  he  exercises  over  you  ? 

Ellida.     Ah,  I  don't  know!     I  don't  know. 

Wangel.  Oh  yes,  you  may  be  sure  that  it  will  not 
be  so.  It  is  not  from  without  that  your  liberation  will 
come.  Not  from  any  one  else.  It  is  from  within — from 
yourself  that  liberation  must  come. 

Ellida.  Oh  yes,  yes.  Do  you  think  I  don't  feel  that. 
But  you  see,  Wangel — that  is  just  the  terrible  part  of  it, 
that 

Wangel.     That ? 

Ellida.  — that  I  often  feel  as  though  I  did  not  wish 
for  liberation  either. 

Wangel.     Then  I  know  no  help  for  you. 

Ellida.  Oh,  don't  say  that  so  confidently.  There 
must  surely  be  something  in  the  world — something  between 
heaven  and  earth,  that  could  force  my  will  to  extricate 
me  from  all  this. 

Wangel.     I  know  of  nothing. 

Ellida.  And  yet  it  is  you  I  count  upon,  Wangel. 
You  I  expect  help  from.     You  alone. 

Wangel.  From  me,  with  whom  you  will  not  live  any 
longer. 

Ellida.     Will  ? 


372  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Wangel.     Yes,  will. 
Ellida.     Say  rather,  can. 

Wangel  (looks  searchingly  at  her).     In  that  there  is 
hope. 

Ellida.     Yes,  do  you  not  think  so. 


Annette.     How  could  father  say  such  a  thing! 

Askeholm.  It  appears  that  was  not  what  he  meant. 
But  I  came  here  in  that  belief.  And  I  think  it  is  quite 
excusable,  Annette.  So  many  a  young  girl  comes  to  re- 
gard her  tutor  with  more  than  ordinary  attachment 

Annette.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  that  [ — in  her  school- 
days]. 

Askeholm.  I  have  myself  more  than  once  had  occa- 
sion to  observe  something  of  the  sort.  But  then  the 
young  girls  leave  school  and  enter  life.  Other  connec- 
tions are  formed,  and  nothing  is  left  of  their  relation  to 
the  tutor  than  a  warm  friendship — a  Uitle  bashful,  per- 
haps  


Annette.     Yes,  that  is  just  how  it  is ! 

Askeholm.  — a  little  inclined  to  avoid  dwelling  on 
school-days  [the  last  year  at  school].  Well  then,  I  got 
your  father's  letter 

Annette.     Yes,  but  that  letter 


Askeholm.  Now  you  mustn't  interrupt  me,  dear 
Annette.  I  thought  at  any  rate  that  I  had  come  upon  an 
exception.  I  accustomed  myself  to  the  thought  that  here 
was  a  young  girl  waiting  and  longing  for  me  to  come 
again.  WTien  a  man,  like  myself,  is  no  longer  in  the 
first  flush  of  youth,  such  a  belief  or  illusion  makes  an  ex- 
ceedingly strong  impression.  A  vivid  affection  for  you 
grew  up  in  me,  Annette.     I  felt  I  must  come  to  you; 


"THE   LADY.  FROM   THE   SEA"  373 

see  you  again;    tell  you  that  I  shared  the  feelings  which 
I  imagined  you  entertained  for  me. 

Annette.  But  now,  when  you  know  that  it  was  not 
so ? 

The  Stranger.  I  was  not  thinking  of  travelling- 
clothes  and  trunks  and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  have  on 
board  with  me  everything  she  requires  for  the  voyage;  and 
I  have  taken  a  cabin.  (To  Ellida.)  I  ask,  if  you 
will  go  with  me. 

Ellida.     If  I  will ! 

The  Stranger.  Yes,  you  must  choose  now.  In 
half  an  hour  it  will  be  too  late. 

Ellida.     What  makes  you  hold  to  me  so  persistently  ? 

The  Stranger.  Do  you  not  feel,  as  I  do,  that  we  two 
belong  to  each  other? 

Ellida.  Do  you  mean  because  of  that  promise, 
which ? 

The  Stranger.  Promises  bind  no  one :  neither  man 
nor  woman.  If  I  hold  to  you  persistently,  it  is  because 
I  cannot  do  otherwise. 

Ellida.     Why  did  you  not  come  sooner? 

Wangel.     Ellida ! 

(The    Stranger    climbs   slowly    over   tlie    garden 
fence  and  comes  nearer.) 

Ellida  (shrinks  behind  Wangel)  .  What  is  it  ?  What 
do  you  want? 

The  Stranger.     You  ask  why  I  did  not  come  sooner. 

Ellida.     Yes,  I  asked  that. 

The  Stranger.  Three  years  ago  I  was  on  my  way 
to  you.  At  last  I  had  been  so  far  successful  that  I  could 
come  for  you.     Take  you  home  with  me,  Ellida. 

Wangel.     Where  is  your  home? 


374  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

The  Stranger.  A  little  everywhere.  Spread  over 
the  whole  earth.     And  over  the  whole  sea  too,  I  think. 

Ellida.  And  to  that  vast  home  you  would  have 
brought  me  then! 

The  Stranger.  I  would  have,  yes.  But  then  came 
the  shipwreck  in  the  Channel.  All  gone,  lock,  stock  and 
barrel,  all  that  I  had  scraped  together.  Then  to  work 
again.  For  you,  Ellida.  Now  I  am  back  here.  For 
the  last  time.  Will  you  come  with  me?  Or  will  you 
stay  here  with  him! 

Wangel  (looking  at  her).     Choose! 

Ellida.     Oh,  I  cannot — !     I  don't  know ! 

(A  bell  is  heard  in  the  distance.) 

The  Stranger.  There  goes  the  warning  bell.  Now 
you  must  say  yes  or  no. 

Ellida.  To  have  to  decide!  To  decide  for  all  time! 
To  do  what  can  never  be  undone! 

The  Stranger.     Never. 

Ellida.     If  I  went  with  you ? 

Wangel.     If  you  went ! 

Ellida.     — should  I  be  going  to  my  happiness! 

The  Stranger.  You  must  find  that  out.  I  cannot 
tell  you  anything  certain. 

Ellida.  Oh,  what  is  it  that  tempts  and  allures  and 
seems  to  drag  me  into  the  unknown!  The  whole  might 
of  the  sea  is  centred  in  this  one  thing. 

Wangel.  I  see  it.  I  see  it.  Step  by  step  you  are 
gliding  away  from  me. 

Ellida.  If  I  let  him  go  away  alone — .  If  I  stay  be- 
hind with  you — Wangel — can  you  assure  me  thac  I  shall 
never  come  to  regret  it? 

Wangel.     Never  regret ? 

Ellida.  Yes,  yes.  for  it  can  never  be  undone!  Can 
you  assure  me  that  I  shall  never  come  to  regret  it  ? 


"THE  LADY   FROM   THE  SEA"  375 

Wangel.     No,  Ellida — I  cannot. 

(The  bell  is  heard  again.) 
The  Stranger    (to  Ellida).     There   is   the  second 

bell. 

Ellida  (goes  up  to  him  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm.) 
Then  I  am  going  with  you. 

Wangel  (to  himself).     I  knew  it. 

The  Stranger.  At  last  you  have  made  your  choice, 
Ellida. 

Ellida.  There  is  no  choice  in  this.  I  am  going  with 
you  because  I  must.     Cannot  do  otherwise. 

The  Stranger.  No,  for  I  am  the  strongest.  But 
now  you  shall  hear  what  I  have  to  offer  you.  I  would 
not  tell  you  anything  before.  For  I  did  not  wish  to  en- 
tice you.  Of  your  own  will  you  were  to  go  where  I  go. 
But  now  you  shall  hear 

Ellida.  I  will  hear  nothing!  It  is  the  unknown  that 
draws  me.     Into  that  I  will  go. 

Wangel.  Let  me  give  you  a  little  assistance  on  the 
way,  Ellida. 

Ellida.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Wangel.  I  do  not  wish  your  happiness  to  be  clouded 
by  remorse  or  regret  at  the  thought  of  me.  You  are  not 
leaving  me  against  your  will.  I  set  you  free.  I  cancel 
our  bargain. 

Ellida.  Is  this  true,  Wangel.  Do  you  mean  it  from 
your  inmost  heart? 

Wangel.  Yes,  from  the  inmost  depths  of  my  heart  I 
mean  it. 

Ellida.     And  can  you  do  it! 
Wangel.     I  can,  because  I  love  you. 
Ellida.     And  you  have  come  to  love  me  so  truly  and  so 
dearly. 


376  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Wangel.  The  years  of  our  marriage  have  brought 
this  about. 

Ellida.     And  I  have  been  blind  to  it. 

Wangel.  Your  thoughts  went  in  other  directions. 
Listen  to  me,  Ellida.  It  would  have  been  easy  for  me 
to  prevent  your  going  away  with  this  stranger.  I  do  not 
prevent  you.  You  are  now  a  free  woman,  with  full  right 
to  go  where  you  will. 

Ellida.     This  transforms  everything. 

(TJte  steamer  bell  rings  for  the  third  time.) 

The  Stranger.     Do  you  hear!     Come  away! 

Ellida.     I  can  never  go  with  you  after  this. 

The  Stranger.     You  will  not  go! 

Ellida  (to  Wangel).  After  this  I  can  never  leave 
you. 

Wangel.     Ellida ! 


The  Stranger.     It  is  all  over  then. 

Ellida.     Yes,  irrevocably. 

The  Stranger.  I  see  there  is  something  that  is 
stronger  than  my  will. 

Ellida.  Your  will  has  no  longer  a  feather's  weight 
with  me.  For  me  you  are  a  dead  man,  who  has  come 
back  from  the  sea.  But  I  am  no  longer  in  terror.  And 
you  fascinate  me  no  more. 

The  Stranger.  Good-bye,  Ellida!  (He  vaults  over 
tlie  fence.)  Henceforth  you  are  nothing  but  a  half -for- 
gotten dream  in  my  life. 

(He  goes  out  to  the  left.) 

Wangel.     How  came  this  transformation  ? 

Ellida.  Oh,  do  you  not  understand  that  it  came 
through  liberation. 

Wangel.     And  the  unknown  fascinates  you  no  longer. 

Ellida.  No  longer.  I  was  free  to  choose  it;  and 
therefore  I  was  able  to  reject  it. 


"THE  LADY  FROM  THE  SEA"  377 

Wangel.  And  now  you  will  come  to  me  again,  will 
you  not,  Ellida? 

Ellida  {throwing  herself  on  his  neck).  Yes,  Wangel 
— now  I  will  come  to  you  again.  I  can  now,  for  now  I 
come  to  you  in  freedom. 

Wangel.  Ellida!  Ellida!  Oh,  to  think  that  we  two 
can  now  live  for  each  other 

Ellida.  — and  for  our  memories.  Yours  as  well  as 
mine 

Wangel.     Yes,  can  we  not,  dearest! 

Ellida.     — and  for  our  two  children,  Wangel! 

Wangel.  Ours — !  {Kisses  her  hands  joyfully  and 
quickly.)  Oh,  I  thank  you  for  that  word  more  than  I 
can  tell! 

(Arnholm,  Annette,  Lyngstband,  Frida,  Bal- 
lested,  and  a  number  of  townspeople  and  summer 
visitors  come  along  the  footpath.) 

Frida.     Just  look,  isn't  father  gallant. 

Ballested.     It  is  summer  time,  miss. 

Arnholm.     The  English  steamer  is  under  way. 

Ltngstrand.     The  last  trip  of  the  season. 

Ballested.  "Soon  will  all  the  straits  be  ice-bound/' 
as  the  poet  says.  It  is  sad,  Mrs.  Wangel.  But  I  stick 
to  what  I've  said.  Human  beings  really  can  acclam — ■ 
acclimatise  themselves. 

Ellida.     Yes,  in  freedom  they  Jan,  Mr.  Ballested. 
{The  great  steamer  glides  noiselessly  down  the  fiord< 
The  music  is  heard  closer  inshore.) 


HEDDA    GABLER 

A  PLAY   IN   FOUR  ACTS 

BY 

HENRIK   IBSEN 

1890 


The  pale,  apparently  cold  beauty.  Expects  great 
things  of  life  and  the  joy  of  life. 

The  man  who  has  now  finally  won  her,  homely  in  ap- 
pearance, but  honourable,  and  a  gifted,  liberal-minded 
man  of  science. 


Hedda:     I  have  no  gift  for  anything  but  being  bored. 

That  life  should  have  nothing  in  the  world  to  offer  one. 

Supposing  he  were  to  go  in  for  politics. 

Brack.     That  is  not  in  his  line. 

H.     But  perhaps  I  could  get  him  into  it. 

Do  you  think  he  would  ever  get  into  the  ministry. 

Brack.     For  that  he  would  have  to  be  a  very  rich 
man. 

H.     Yes  and  then — I  doubt  if  it  would  bring  me  any 
satisfaction  in  the  long  run. 

* 

Lovborg:     I  have  led  a   rather   wild  life,   they  say. 
Now  I  have  to  make  amends. 

But  I  cannot  renounce. 


NB! 

Brack  had  always  thought  that  Hedda's  short  engage- 
ment to  Tesman  would  come  to  nothing. 

Hedda  speaks  of  how  she  felt  herself  set  aside,  step  by 
step,  when  her  father  was  no  longer  in  favour,  when  he 
retired  and  died  without  leaving  anything. — It  then  came 
upon  her,  in  her  bitterness,  that  it  was  for  his  sake  she  had 

381 


382  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

been  made  much  of. — And  then  she  was  already  between 
25  and  26.     In  danger  of  becoming  an  old  maid. 

She  thinks  that  in  reality  Tesman  only  feels  a  vain 
pride  in  having  won  her.  His  solicitude  for  her  is  the 
same  as  is  shown  for  a  thoroughbred  horse  or  a  valuable 
sporting  dog. — This,  however,  does  not  offend  her.  She 
merely  regards  it  as  a  fact. 

Hedda  says  to  Brack  that  she  does  not  think  Tesman 
can  be  called  ridiculous.  But  in  reality  she  finds  him  so. 
Later  on  she  finds  him  pitiable  as  well. 

Tesman:  Could  you  not  call  me  by  my  Christian 
name? 

Hedda:  No,  indeed  I  couldn't — unless  they  had 
given  you  some  other  name  than  the  one  you  have. 

Tesman  puts  Lovborg's  manuscript  in  his  pocket  so 
that  it  may  not  be  lost.  Afterwards  it  is  Hedda  who,  by 
a  casual  remark,  with  tentative  intention,  gives  him  the 
idea  of  keeping  it. 

Then  he  reads  it.  A  new  line  of  thought  is  revealed  to 
him.  But  the  strain  of  the  situation  increases.  Hedda 
awakens  his  jealousy. 

* 

In  the  3rd  act  one  thing  after  another  comes  to  light 
about  Lovborg's  adventures  in  the  course  of  the  night. 
At  last  he  comes  himself,  in  quiet  despair.  "  Where  is 
the  manuscript  ?  "  "  Did  I  not  leave  it  behind  me  here  ?  " 
He  does  not  know  that  he  has  done  so.  But  after  all,  of 
what  use  is  the  manuscript  to  him  now !  He  is  writing  of 
the  "moral  doctrine  of  the  future  "!  When  he  has 
just  been  let  out  of  the  police  cells! 

Hedda's  despair  is  that  there  are  doubtless  so  many 
chances  of  happiness  in  the  world,  but  that  she  cannot 


HEDDA   GABLER  383 

discover  them.     It  is  the  want  of  an  object  in  life  that 
torments  her. 

When  Hedda  beguiles  T.  into  leading  E.  L.  into  ruin, 
it  is  done  to  test  T.'s  character. 

It  is  in  Hedda's  presence  that  the  irresistible  craving 
for  excess  always  comes  over  E.  L. 

Tesman  cannot  understand  that  E.  L.  could  wish  to 
base  his  future  on  injury  to  another. 

Hedda.  Do  I  hate  T.  ?  No,  not  at  all.  I  only  find 
him  boring. 

Brack.     But  nobody  else  thinks  so. 

Hedda.  Neither  is  there  any  one  but  myself  who  is 
married  to  him. 

Brack.       .  ,  .  not  at  all  boring. 

Hedda:  Heavens,  you  always  want  me  to  express  my- 
self so  correctly.  Very  well  then.  T.  is  not  boring,  but 
I  am  bored  by  living  with  him. 

Hedda:  .  .  .  had  no  prospects.  Well,  perhaps  you 
would  have  liked  to  see  me  in  a  convent  (home  for  unmar- 
ried ladies). 

Hedda:  .  .  .  then  isn't  it  an  honourable  thing  to 
profit  by  one's  person  ?  Don't  actresses  and  others  turn 
their  advantages  into  profit?  I  had  no  other  capital. 
Marriage — I  thought  it  was  like  buying  an  annuity. 

Hedda:  Remember  that  I  am  the  child  of  an  old 
man — and  a  worn-out  man  too — or  past  his  prime  at  any 
rate — Perhaps  that  has  left  its  mark. 

Brack:  Upon  my  word,  I  believe  you  have  begun  to 
brood  over  problems. 


384  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda:     Well,  what  cannot  one  lapse  into  when  one 
has  gone  and  got  married. 


Miss  R.  (walking  about  the  room).  There.  Now  we 
can  see  all  the  finery.  Yes,  yes — it  looks  well,  Berta. 
Flowers   everywhere. 

Berta.  They  were  all  sent  in  last  night.  So  that 
they  might  keep  fresh  of  course.  But  this  a  lady  brought 
herself — just  before  you  came,  Miss. 

Miss  Rising.  Yes,  that  is  as  it  ought  to  be.  When 
a  young  couple  come  home  from  their  honeymoon 


FROM  THE  FrRST  ACT 

Miss  Rising.  Oh  well — just  at  first.  You  must  do 
as  well  as  you  can. 

Berta.     Most  like  she'll  be  terrible  grand  in  her  ways. 

Miss  Rising.  Well,  you  can't  wonder  at  that.  Think 
of  the  sort  of  life  she  wTas  accustomed  to  in  her  father's 
time. 

Berta.  Yes,  and  if  I  only  had  to  do  with  Master  Axel, 
it  would  be  easy  enough. 

Miss  Rising.  No,  Axel  is  not  difficult  to  please.  If 
he  only  has  what  he  has  always  been  accustomed  to,  he's 
satisfied.  But  by-the-bye,  you  mustn't  call  him  Master 
Axel  any  more.     In  future  you  must  say  Dr.  Tesman. 


Tesmen.     Yes,  you  may  be  sure  I  have. 
Miss  Rising.     And  what  do  you  think  of  it? 
Tesman.     I'm    delighted.     This    is    the    very    house 
Hedda  wanted  to  live  in.     She  said  often  and  often,  before 


HEDDA   GABLER  385 

we  were  engaged,  that  she  would  never  care  to  live  any- 
where but  in  Secretary  Falk's  villa. 

Miss  Rising.  And  how  lucky  it  was  that  this  very 
house  should  be  to  let  [for  sale]. 

Tesman.  Yes,  you  may  be  sure  I  was  glad  to  hear  of 
it.  And  Hedda  too — when  you  wrote  about  it.  And 
how  comfortably  you  have  arranged  it  all. 

Miss  Rising.     So  you  really  think  that,  dear  Axel  ? 

Tesman  [(rising)].     Yes,  it  is  simply  splendid,  I  think. 

Miss  Rising.  So  do  I.  And  Judge  Brack  says 
the  same. 

Tesman  (looking  round),  [(feeling  the  chairs.)]  Fancy 
— carved  furniture!     What  I  have  always  been  wanting. 


Miss  Rising.  Well,  you  see,  now  you  will  be  made 
professor,  and  then  you  will  at  once  have  your  own  salary 
to  depend  upon 

Tesman.  That  is  a  matter  of  course.  But  in  any 
case  I  am  not  yet  appointed. 

Miss  Rising.  Oh,  you  may  be  sure  they  will  be 
quick  about  appointing  you — as  soon  as  they  hear  you 
are  home  again. 

Tesman.  Yes,  that  may  be  so.  But  just  suppose  that 
to-morrow  I  fall  down  in  the  street  and  lie  there! 

Miss  Rising  (laughing) .  Oh,  there  is  no  fear  of  that. 
A  man  who  is  born  to  make  a  noise  in  the  world,  he 
doesn't  fall  down  in  the  street,  you  may  be  sure.  The 
people  who  want  to  stand  in  your  way,  they  fall.  Holger 
Lovborg — his  fall  was  the  worst.  And  now  he  has  to 
lie  on  the  bed  he  has  made  for  himself — poor  [unfortu- 
nate] creature. 

Tesman.  Have  you  heard  anything  of  him  ?  Since  I 
went  away? 


386  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Miss  Rising.  Only  that  he  has  published  a  new 
book t 

Tesman.     What !     Recently  ? 

Miss  Rising.  Yes,  but  heaven  knows  whether  it  can 
be  worth  much?  Ah — when  your  new  book  appears, 
Axel!     That  will  be  another  story,  won't  it! 

Tesman.  Yes,  it  won't  be  long  now,  Auntie.  For 
now  it  will  be  very  easy  for  me — I  feel  that. 

(Hedda,  in  a  morning  gown,  enters  by  the  comer 
door  on  the  left.) 

Miss  Rising  (going  to  meet  Iter).  Good  morning, 
my  dear  Hedda!     Good  morning! 

Hedda  (holds  out  her  hand).  Good  morning,  dear 
Aunt!     So  early  a  call!    That  is  kind  of  you. 

Miss  Rising.  Well — has  the  bride  slept  well  in  her 
new  home? 

Hedda.  Oh  yes,  thanks — passably.  But  of  course 
one  has  always  to  accustom  one's  self  to  new  surround- 
ings. Little  by  little.  (Looking  towards  the  left.)  Oh — 
there  the  servant  has  gone  and  opened  the  veranda  door, 
and  let  in  a  whole  flood  of  sunshine. 

Miss  Rising  (going  toivards  the  door) .    I  will  shut 

Hedda.  No,  no,  not  that.  Tesman,  please  let  down 
the  Venetian  blinds.     That  will  give  a  softer  light. 

Tesman  (goes  to  the  door).  All  right — all  right — 
There  now,  Hedda,  now  you  have  both  fresh  air  and 
shade. 

Hedda.  Yes,  fresh  air  we  certainly  must  have,  with 
all  these  stacks  of  flowers — .  (At  the  table.)  H'm, — we 
shall  never  get  on  with  this  servant. 

Miss  Rising.     Not  get  on  with  Berta ! 

Tesman.     You  don't  know  how  good  Berta  is. 

Hedda.     Well,  but  just  look  here.     She  has  left  her 


HEDDA   GABLER  387 

old  bonnet  lying  about  on  a  chair.  Just  fancy,  if  any 
one  should  come  in  and  see  it! 

Tesman.     Why  Hedda!     That's  Aunt  Jane's  bonnet! 

Hedda.     What!     No  really 

Miss  Rising  (taking  up  the  bonnet).  And,  what's 
more,  it's  not  old,  Mrs.  Hedda. 

Hedda.     No,  of  course — I  can  see  that  now. 

Miss  Rising  (half  in  tears) .  And  I  only  bought  it  in 
honour  of  your  coming  home. 

Hedda.     But  my  dear  good  Miss  [Aunt]  Rising 

Miss  Rising  (tying  on  the  bonnet) .     Yes,  indeed  I  did. 

Hedda.     No,  but  look  here,  Aunt  Jane 

Tesman.  Hedda  is  a  little  short-sighted,  you  know, 
Auntie 

Miss  Rising.  Well,  well,  I'm  sure  it  isn't  worth  say- 
ing any  more  about  such  a  trifle. — But  now  I  must  see 
about  getting  back  into  town.  And  to  Sister  Rina,  poor 
dear. — My  parasol  ?  Ah,  here  it  is.  For  this  is  mine 
too.  (Mutters.)  Not  Berta's.  (Cordially  to  them  both.) 
Well,  good-bye,  good-bye,  dears!  Good-bye,  Axel! 
Heaven  be  thanked  that  everything  is  well  with  you. 

Hedda.     Good-bye,  Aunt  Jane! 

Tesman.     And  mind  you  come  and  see  us  again  soon. 

Miss  Rising.  A  thousand  thanks,  my  boy.  You 
may  be  sure  I  shall.     (She  goes  out  by  the  hall  door.) 

Hedda.  Do  you  think  she  was  angry  with  me  about 
that  bonnet  ? 

Tesman.  No,  not  angry.  But  I  think  she  was  a  lit- 
tle annoyed. 

Hedda.  Well,  but  what  an  idea,  to  pitch  her  bonnet 
about  in  the  drawing-room?  When  she  comes  to  call. 
How  can  she  think  of  such  a  thing  ?     No  one  does  it. 

Tesman.  Well  you  may  be  sure  Aunt  Jane  won't 
do  it  again. 


388  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda.  In  any  case,  I  shall  manage  to  make  it  up 
with  her. 

Tesman.     Yes,  my  dear  Hedda,  please  do  that. 

Hedda.  I  will  ask  a  few  good  friends  to  spend  the 
evening  with  us  to-morrow.  And  then  I  can  ask  her 
at  the  same  time. 

Tesman.  Yes,  do,  Hedda!  For  remember  what  she 
has  been  to  me  ever  since  I  was  a  boy. 

Hedda.  And  besides,  it  may  be  useful  to  keep  her 
about  us.  For  this  servant — we  evidently  can't  depend 
upon  her. 

Tesman.  And  there's  one  thing  more  you  could  do 
that  would  delight  her  heart. 

Hedda.     What  is  it? 

Tesman.  If  you  could  only  prevail  on  yourself — .  For 
my  sake,  Hedda!     If  you  could  say  du  to  her  in  future. 

Hedda.  No  no,  Tesman — you  really  mustn't  ask 
that  of  me.  I  have  told  you  so  already.  I  shall  call  her 
"Aunt" — and  you  must  be  satisfied  with  that.  I  have 
never  said  du  even  to  my  own  uncles  and  aunts. 

Tesman.  No  no — if  you're  not  used  to  it — .  What 
are  you  looking  at,  Hedda? 

Hedda.  Oh,  I'm  only  looking  at  my  old  pianoforte. 
It  doesn't  go  at  all  well  with  all  the  other  things. 

Tesman.  Th  j  first  time  I  draw  my  salary,  I'll  see 
about  exchanging  it. 

Hedda.  No,  no — no  exchanging.  I  don't  want  to 
part  with  it.  I  would  rather  have  it  in  my  own  little 
room,  and  then  get  another  here  in  its  place.  When  it's 
convenient,  I  mean. 

Tesman.     Yes,  of  course  we  could  do  that. 

Hedda  (takes  up  the  bouquet  from  the  piano).  These 
flowers  were  not  here  last  night  when  we  arrived. 

Tesman.     Aunt  Jane  must  have  brought  them. 


HEDDA   GABLER  389 

Hedda  (examining  the  bouquet).  A  visiting-card 
(Takes  it  and  reads.)  "Shall  return  later  in  the  day." 
— Can  you  guess  whose  card  it  is  ? 

Tesman.     No.     Whose  ? 

Hedda.     Mrs.  Elfstad's.     An  old  flame  of  yours. 

Tesman.     Is  it  really?     So  Mrs.  Elfstad  is  in  town! 

Hedda.  It's  odd  that  she  should  call  upon  us.  I 
have  scarcely  seen  her  since  we  left  school. 

Tesman.  I  haven't  seen  her  either  for — heaven  knows 
how  long.  I  wonder  how  she  can  endure  to  live  in  such 
an  out-of-the-way  hole. 

Hedda  (with  sudden  animation).  But  look  here — ■ 
isn't  it  somewhere  in  those  parts  that  he — that — Holger 
Lovborg  is  living? 

Tesman  (smiling).  Your  old  flame,  Hedda  ?  Yes,  he 
is  somewhere  in  that  part  of  the  country. 

(Berta  enters  by  the  hall  door.) 

Berta.  That  lady,  ma'am,  that  brought  some  flowers 
a  little  while  ago,  is  here  again.  (Pointing.)  The  flow- 
ers  you  have  in  your  hand,  ma'am. 

Hedda.     Ah,  is  she?     Well,  show  her  in  at  once. 
(Berta  opens  tlie  door  for  Mrs.  Elfstad,  and  goes 
out  herself.) 

Hedda  (receives  Iter  warmly).  How  do  you  do,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Elfstad  ?     How  delightful  to  see  you  again ! 

Mrs.  Elfstad  (nervous,  but  self-controlled) .  Yes,  it's 
a  very  long  time  since  we  met. 

Tesman  (gives  her  his  hand).     And  we  too. 

[Thanks,  thanks,  I  hardly  knew  whether  I  might  call.] 

Hedda.  And  a  thousand  thanks  for  these  lovely 
flowers 

Tesman.  His  book?  Then  he  has  really  published 
a  new  book? 


390  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Elfstad.  Yes,  a  big  book  called  "Sociology." 
Haven't  you  heard  of  it,  Mr.  Tesman  ? 

Tesman.     No,  how  should  I  have  heard  of  it? 

Hedda.  You  see,  we've  been  roving  about  all  over 
the  place 

Tesman.  My  aunt  did  say  something  about  it  just 
now — .     When  did  the  book  come  out? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  About  a  fortnight  ago.  And  since  it 
has  sold  so  well,  and  been  so  much  read — and  made 
such  a  sensation 

Hedda.     Has  it  indeed  ? 

Tesman.  It  must  be  something  he  has  had  lying  by 
since  his  better  days. 


Mrs.  Elfsted.     Here  it  is. 

(She  hands  him  a  slip  of  paper.) 

Tesman.     Good,  good.     Then  I'll  go  in 

Hedda.     Be  sure  you  write  him  a  cordial  letter.     And 
a  good  long  one  too. 

Tesman.     Yes,  I  will. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     But  please,  please  don't  say  anything 
about  me! 

Tesman.     No,  no — if  you  don't  want  me  to. 

[H.     Look  there.     Take  those  with  you. 

T.     What  are  they  ? 

H.     Your  slippers. 

T.     Oh  yes,  I  forgot.] 

(He  goes  out  by  the  door  in  the  corner  on  the  right.) 


Hedda.     No,  that's  clear. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  And  then  my  husband  sometimes 
made  use  of  him  in  his  office. — You  see,  Lovborg  was 
to  be  had  for — for  a  small  salary. 


HEDDA  GABLER  391 

Hedda.  Did  Holger  Lovborg  have  to  sit  writing  in 
an  office! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Chiefly  when  my  husband  was  away 
on  official  business. 

Hedda.  And  your  husband — perhaps  he  is  often 
away  from  home  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes.  Being  sheriff,  you  know,  he 
has  to  travel  about  a  good  deal  in  his  district. 

Hedda  (leaning  towards  her,  with  both  hands  on  her 
shoulder) .  Thea — my  poor,  sweet  Thea — now  you  must 
tell  me  everything — exactly  as  it  stands. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Well  then,  you  must  question  me. 
Question  me  about  anything  you  please!  And  I  will  try 
to  answer. 

Hedda.     What  sort  of  a  man  is  your  husband,  Thea  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     What  sort  of  a  man  ? 

Hedda.  Well,  I  mean — you  know — in  everyday  life. 
Is  he  kind  to  you  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  I  am  sure  he  means  well  in  everything. 
And  no  doubt  everyone  else  thinks  so  too.  I  mean,  the 
few  people  who  visit  us. 

Hedda,     Then  you  don't  see  much  society. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     No. 

Hedda.     But  can  you  endure  it,  year  after  year  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  No,  I  cannot.  Nor  can  I  endure 
that  any  more — after  this. 

Hedda.  Not  that,  you  say?  Then  is  there  some- 
thing else? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Everything! 

Hedda.  Your  husband  must  be  much,  much  older 
than  you.  There  is  at  least  twenty  years'  difference  be- 
tween you,  is  there  not? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes,  that  is  true,  too.  Everything 
about  him  is  repellent  to  me!     We  have  not  a  thought  in 


392  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

common !  We  have  never  had  a  single  point  of  sympathy 
—he  and  I. 

Hedda.  But  is  he  not  fond  of  you  all  the  same  ? 
At  heart  ?     In  his  own  way  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh  no — please  don't  think  that. 
He  regards  me  simply  as  a  useful  property.  And  then 
it  doesn't  cost  much  to  keep  me.     I  am  not  expensive. 

Hedda.     That  is  stupid  of  you. 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (shakes  her  head).  It  cannot  be  other- 
wise— not  with  him. 

Hedda.  No,  no — if  you  can't  make  him  really  care 
for  you . 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  He  can't  care  for  any  one  but  him- 
self— and  perhaps  a  little  for  the  children. 

Hedda.     And  for  Holger  Lovborg,  Thea. 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (looking  at  her).  For  Holger  Lovborg! 
What  puts  that  into  your  head  ? 

Hedda.  Well,  my  dear — when  he  lets  you  go — . 
When  he  sends  you  after  him  all  the  way  to  town. 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (smiling  nervously).  Oh,  of  course. 
Yes,  yes —  (Vehemently,  but  not  loudly.)  No — I  may 
just  as  well  make  a  clean  breast  of  it!  I  can't  sit  here 
telling  lies  any  longer.  For  it  must  all  come  out  in  any 
case. 

Hedda.     Lies!     Why,  dear  Thea ' 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short — . 
My  husband  did  not  know  that  I  was  coming. 

Hedda.     What!     Your  husband  didn't  know  it! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  No,  of  course  not.  For  that  matter, 
he  was  away  from  home  himself — he  was  travelling.  I 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  I  couldn't  indeed — so  utterly 
alone  as  I  should  have  been  in  future. 

Hedda.     Well?     And  then? 


HEDDA   GABLER  393 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  So  I  put  together  a  few  little  things — 
what  I  needed  most — as  quietly  as  possible.  And  then 
I  left  the  house. 

Hedda.     Without  a  word  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes — and  took  the  steamer  first. 
And  then  the  train  to  town. 

Hedda.     Why,  my  dear,  good  Thea ! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     What  else  could  I  possibly  do  ? 

Hedda.  But  what  do  you  think  your  husband  will 
say  when  you  go  home  again? 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (looks  at  her).     Back  to  him? 

Hedda.     Of  course. 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (rises  and  moves  about  the  room).  I 
shall  never  go  back  to  him  again. 

Hedda  (turns  on  the  sofa  and  follows  her  with  her  eyes) . 
Then  you  have — left  house  and  home — for  good  and  all  ? 
Left  everything  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  A  thing  of  that  sort  cannot  be  un- 
done. 

Hedda  (rises from  tJw  sofa  and  goes  towards  her) .  But, 
Thea,  did  you  think  well  over  this? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  I  thought  over  nothing.  I  only  did 
what  I  thought  I  had  to  do. 

Hedda.  And  what  are  your  plans  now?  What  do 
you  think  of  doing? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  I  don't  know  yet.  *  I  only  know  this, 
that  I  must  live  where  he  is — if  I  am  to  live  at  all. 

Hedda.  Sit  down  a  moment — then  you  will  be  calmer. 
(They  seat  themselves  at  the  table.)  How  did  this — this 
understanding — between  you  and  Holger  Lovborg  come 
about  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh.  I  suppose  it  grew  up  gradually. 
As  I  saw  that  I  had  gained  a  sort  of  influence  over  hiim 

Hedda  .    So  you  had  that  ? 


394  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  He  gave'  up  his  bad  habits.  Not 
because  I  asked  him  to,  for  I  never  dared  do  that.  But 
of  course  he  saw  that  they  were  repulsive  to  me;  and  so 
he  dropped  everything  of  that  sort. 

Hedda  (with  slight  mockery).  Then  you  have  re- 
claimed him — as  the  saying  goes. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  And  he  has  made  a  real  human  being 
of  me — taught  me  to  think,  and  to  understand  so  many 
things. 

Hedda.     Did  he  give  you  lessons  too,  Lhen  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  No,  not  exactly  lessons.  But  he 
talked  to  me — talked  about  such  an  infinity  of  things. 

Hedda.     Scientific  things,  I  suppose. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes,  that  sort  of  thing.  Why  do 
you  smile?  Remember, — up  there  I  was  not  situated 
as  you  are  here.  You  have  your  husband  to  explain  so 
much  to  you. 

Hedda  (dryly).  Yes,  I  have.  But  do  you  think  it 
amusing  to  sit  and  listen  to  explanations? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes,  indeed  I  do.  Don't  you  think 
so  too? 

Hedda.  No,  most  certainly  I  don't.  I  think  it  horri- 
bly boring.  (Glances  towards  Tesman's door.)  But  that's 
between  ourselves,  of  course. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Everything  must  be  between  our- 
selves. For  heaven's  sake — all  that  I've  been  telling 
you  just  now. 

Hedda.     Oh,  I  suppose  Tesman  may 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (struggling  with  herself).  Hedda — 
there  is — one  thing  more. 

Hedda.     And  what  is  that? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  I  don't  feel  at  all  sure  what  will  be 
the  end  of  it — between  Holger  Lovborg  and  me.  Whether 
it  will  be  nothing  but  close  friendship — on  his  side. 


HEDDA   GABLER  395 

Hedda.     What  ?     Are  you  not  sure  of  him.  then  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes,  I  think  I  ought  to  be  now. 
Now  that  I  have  left  house  and  home  for  his  sake.  But 
— but — oh,  Hedda,  there  is  some  one  that  stands  between 
us. 

Hedda.     What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Some  one  who  has  hurt  him  and  in- 
jured him  so  profoundly — .  But  whom  I  don't  believe 
he  can  ever  forget  in  spite  of  that. 

Hedda  (rises  slowly,  rests  her  hands  on  the  table  and 
fixes  her  eyes  upon  her) .     Who  is  it  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Yourself,  Hedda. 

Hedda.     Can   this   be — !     Hush!     (Glances   towards 
Tesman's  door.)     Hush,  he's  coming!     (Whispers.)     For 
God's  sake,  Thea — let  all  this  be  between  ourselves! 
(Axel  Tesman,  with  a  letter  in  his  hand,  comes  from 
his  room.) 

Tesman.     There  now;   the  letter  is  finished. 

Hedda.  That's  right.  Mrs.  Elfsted  and  I  were 
thinking  of  going  out. 

Tesman.  Good.  Then  perhaps  you  will  post  this 
when  you  go. 

Hedda  (takes  the  letter) .     I  will  tell  the  maid  t  d. 

Tesman.     Yes,  of  course;  that  is  what  I  mean! . 
(Berta  enters  from  the  hall.) 

Berta.  Judge  Brack  wishes  to  know  if  Mrs.  Tesman 
will  receive  him. 

Hedda.  Yes,  ask  Judge  Brack  to  come  in.  And 
look  here — put  this  letter  in  the  post. 

Berta  (taking  the  letter).     Yes,  ma'am. 

(She  opens  the  door  for  Judge  Brack  and  goes  out 
herself.) 

Brack.     May  one  venture  to  call  so  early  in  the  day  ? 

Hedda,     Of  course  you  may. 


596  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Tesman.  Welcome  at  any  time.  (Introducing  him.) 
Mrs.  Elfsted—  Judge  Brack. 

Brack.     Ah,  delighted 

Hedda.     It's  nice  to  see  you  by  daylight,  Judge. 

Brack.  And  I  think  it's  nice  to  see  you  and  your  hus- 
band in  your  home.  Where  I  have  been  arranging  the 
empty  rooms  and  putting  them  into  shape. 

Tesman.     I  can't  thank  you  sufficiently. 

Brack.     Oh,  pray  don't 

Hedda.     Yes,  you  are  a  friend  indeed 

Brack.     And  is  Mrs.  Hedda  tolerably  satisfied  ? 

Hedda.  Yes,  indeed  I  am.  Of  course — there  will 
have  to  be    a  little  re-arrangement  here  and  there. 

Brack.  Oh,  we  only  arranged  things  just  for  the 
present. 

Hedda.  And  one  or  two  things  are  still  wanting. 
We  shall  have  to  buy  some  additional  trifles. 

Brack.     Indeed ! 

Hedda  (laughing).  Don't  be  alarmed!  You  shall 
not  be  troubled  with  them.     I  shall  see  to  them  myself. 

Brack.  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that.  (To  Tesman.) 
By-the-bye,  I  really  called  on  business 

Tesman.     Indeed?     Business ? 

Hedda.  That's  good  of  you!  You  want  to  turn  me 
out. 

Brack.     I! 

Hedda.  Yes,  aren't  you  threatening  to  talk  about 
business? — Come  along,  Thea!  (To  Tesman.)  I  shall 
not  be  out  long. 

Tesman.     Just  as  you  please,  dear. 

Hedda  (to  Brack).  Au  revoir,  then — when  you  have 
done  your  business. 

Brack.     Au  revoir,  Mrs.  Hedda. 

(Hedda  and  Mrs  Elfsted  go  out  by  the  hall  door.) 


HEDDA   GABLER  397 

Tesman.  There.  Now  we  can  have  a  talk.  Won't 
you  sit  down  ? 

Brack  (seats  himself  beside  the  table).  Thanks,  for  a 
moment. 

Tesman  (seating  himself).     Then  it's  business ? 

Brack.     Yes,  in  a  way. 

Tesman.  I  understand.  I"?  the  serious  part  of  the 
frolic  that  is  coming  now. 


Tesman.     It  was  Holger  Lovborg  we  were  talking 
about. 

Hedda  (glancing  at  him  rapidly).     Ah ! 

Tesman.     And  I  really  can't  see  what  is  to  become  of 
him. 

Brack.     Perhaps  I  can  give  you  some  information  on 
that  point. 

Tesman.     Indeed ! 

Brack.  You  must  not  forget  that  he  comes  of  a  pow- 
erful family. 

Tesman.     He  can't  count  upon  those  people. 

Brack.     Are  you  so  sure  of  that  ? 

Tesman.  I  know  that  among  themselves  he  is  known 
as  the  stain  on  the  family. 

Brack.  At  one  time  they  called  him  the  hope  of  the 
family. 

Tesman.  At  one  time — yes.  But  he  has  put  an  end 
to  all  that. 

Hedda.     He  has  recovered  himself,  though. 

Brack.     And  then  this  book  that  he  has  published — 

Tesman.  Well  well,  I  hope  to  goodness  they  may  find 
something  for  him  to  do.  I  have  just  written  to  him. 
Asked  h'm  to  come  to  us  to-morrow  evening. 


398  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda.  You  come  too,  Judge  Brack.  We  will  have 
an  amusing  time. 

Brack.  My  dear  Mr.  Tesman — and  you  too,  Mrs. 
Hedda — I  think  I  ought  not  to  keep  you  in  the  dark 
about  something  that — that 

Tesman.     That  concerns  Holger? 

Brack.     Both  you  and  him. 

Tesman.     Well,  my  dear  Judge,  out  with  it! 

Brack.  You  must  be  prepared  to  find  your  appoint- 
ment deferred  longer  than  you  desired  or  expected. 

Tesman.     What  ?     Is  there  some  hitch  ? 

Brack.  The  nomination  may  perhaps  be  made  con- 
ditional on  the  result  of  a  competition . 

Tesman.     Competition! 

Hedda.     With  whom  ?     Ah* ! 

Tesman.     Surely  not ? 

Brack  (rises).     Yes,  precisely — Holger  Lovborg. 

Tesman  (springs  up).  No,  no — it's  quite  inconceiv- 
able!    Quite  impossible! 

Brack.  Perhaps  that  is  what  it  may  come  to,  all  the 
same. 

Tesman.  But  that  would  be  the  most  shameful  in- 
justice towards  me.  They  had  as  good  as  promised  me 
the  appointment! 

Brack.  Well,  and  no  doubt  you  will  get  it  in  the  end; 
only  after  a  contest. 

Hedda.  Fancy — !  There  will  be  a  sort  of  sporting 
interest  in  that. 

Tesman.  Why,  Hedda,  how  can  you  be  so  indifferent 
about  it! 

Hedda.  I  am  not  at  all  indifferent.  I  am  most  eager 
to  see  who  wins. 

Brack.  In  any  case,  Mrs.  Hedda,  it  is  best  that  you 
should  know  the  position,  before  you — before  you  set 


HEDDA  GABLER  399 

about  the  little  purchases  that  you  were  threatening  just 
now. 

Hedda.     This  can  make  no  difference. 

Brack.     Indeed.     Then  I  have  no  more  to  say.    Good- 
bye for  the  present. 

Hedda.     Good-bye,  Judge;   and  be  sure  you  call  to- 
morrow ! 

Brack.     Many  thanks.     Good-bye,  good-bye. 

Tesman  (accompanying  him  to  the  door).     Good-bye, 
Judge ! 

(Judge  Brack  goes  out  through  the  hall.) 

Tesman.     Well,  Hedda — you  and  I  must  have  a  seri- 
ous talk. 

Hedda.     Not  now,  Tesman.     I  assure  you,  I  haven't 
time. 

Tesman.     No  time! 

Hedda.     No.     I  must  go  and  change  my  dress  be- 
fore lunch. 

(She  goes  toivards  the  door  on  the  left.) 

Tesman.     But  you  take  this  as  if  it  didn't  matter  at  all. 

Hedda  (turns  in  the  doorway).     Why  should  I  not? 
You  are  so  fond  of  saying  that  the  strongest  always  wins. 

(She  goes  out.) 

Tesman  (grasps  the  back  of  a  chair  and  gazes  uneasily 
before  him  ) .     The  strongest,  yes 


SECOND   ACT 


The  room  at  the  Tesmans'  as  in  the  First  Act,  except  that 
the  piano  has  been  removed,  and  an  elegant  little 
writing-table  and  an  etagere  put  in  its  place.  Some 
of  the  bouquets  have  been  removed  from  the  table  and 
placed  in  the  inner  room.     It  is  afternoon. 


400  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda,  dressed  in  a  tasteful  afternoon  gown,  is  alone  in 
the  room.  She  stands  by  the  open  door  of  the  veranda, 
loading  a  revolver.  The  other  lies  in  an  open  case 
on  a  chair  by  her  side. 

Hedda  (looks  down  the  garden  and  calls).  So  you  are 
here  again,  Judge! 

Judge  Brack  (is  heard  calling  from  below).  As  you 
see,  Mrs.  Hedda! 

Hedda  (raises  the  revolver  and  points).  Now  I'll 
shoot  you,  Judge  Brack. 

Judge  Brack  (calling  unseen).     No,  no,  no!     Don't  J 
stand  aiming  at  me! 

Hedda  (fires).     Bang! 

Brack  (outside).     Are  you  out  of  your  senses ! 

Hedda.     Did  I  hit  you  ? 

Brack  (still  outside).  I  wish  you  would  let  these 
pranks  alone! 

Hedda  (lays  the  revolver  in  the  case).  Come  in  then. 
Judge. 

(Judge  Brack  enters  by  the  door  of  the  veranda.) 

Brack.     What  the  deuce  are  you  shooting  at? 

Hedda.     Thrushes. 

Brack.     But  the  thrushes  haven't  come  yet. 

Hedda.     Oh,  then  I'm  firing  in  the  air. 

Brack.     What  is  the  good  of  that? 

Hedda.  Then  what  in  heaven's  name  would  you 
have  me  do  with  myself? 

Brack.     Have  you  had  no  visitors? 

Hedda  (closing  the  door  of  the  veranda) .  Not  one.  I 
suppose  all  our  set  are  still  out  of  town.  I  have  to  be 
content  with  their  flowers  and  visiting-cards. 

Brack.     And  is  Tesman  not  at  home  either  ? 

Hedda.  No,  he  rushed  out  of  the  house  as  soon  as 
I  took  up  the  pistol-case. 


HEDDA   GABLER  401 

Brack.     Really,  Mrs.  Hedda! 

Hedda.  Oh,  you  mustn't  take  it  so  literally.  Though, 
for  that  matter,  he  is  almost  as  much  afraid  of  these 
things  as  you  are. 

(She  takes  the  case  and  locks  it  up  in  a  drawer  of  the 
writing-table.) 

Brack  (standing  behijid  her,  still  with  his  overcoat  on 
his  arm  and  his  hat  in  his  hand) .     So  he's  not  at  home. 

Hedda.  No — he  didn't  expect  you  so  early.  And 
then  it  struck  him  that  he  had  to  go  into  town  and  get 
some  new  books. 

Brack.  Of  course.  It  was  stupid  of  me  not  to  have 
thought  of  that  before. 

Hedda  (turning  her  Jiead  to  look  at  him) .     Why  stupid  ? 

Brack.  Because  if  I  had  thought  of  it  I  should  have 
come — a  little — earlier. 

Hedda  (puts  the  key  of  the  writing-table  in  her  pocket 
and  walks  across  the  room) .  Then  you  would  have  found 
no  one  to  receive  you ;  for  I  have  been  in  my  room  chang- 
ing my  dress  ever  since  lunch. 

Brack.  And  is  there  no  sort  of  a  little  chink  that  we 
could  talk  through? 

Hedda.  Not  for  you  in  any  case,  my  good  Judge. — 
But  let  us  sit  down  and  wait.  Tesman  is  not  likely  to 
be  back  for  some  time  yet. 


Brack.  Yes  and  no.  To  speak  frankly,  I  never 
imagined  that  engagement  would  lead  to  anything. 

Hedda  (smiling) .     The  wish  was  father  to  the  thought. 

Brack  (laughs).  Yes,  yes,  yes,  Mrs.  Hedda,  so  they 
say.  

Hedda  (jestingly).  Oh,  I  assure  you  I  have  never 
cherished  any  illusions  with  respect  to  you. 


402  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Brack.  All  I  require  is  a  pleasant  and  intimate  in- 
terior, where  I  can  be  of  assistance  in  every  possible 
way 

Hedda  (raising  Iter  forefinger).  Not  with  money 
though! 

Brack.  No,  tJiat  would  at  once  destroy  the  under- 
standing. That  is  why,  you  see,  I  prefer  those  houses 
where  there  is  no  question  of  anything  of  that  sort,  and 
where  I  am  free  to  come  and  go  as  a  friend 

Hedda.     Of  the  mistress  of  the  house? 

Brack  (bows  gallantly).  Of  the  mistress  first  of  all,  of 
course.  But  of  the  master  too,  in  the  second  place.  Such 
a  triangular  friendship — if  I  may  call  it  so — is  really  a 
great  convenience  for  all  parties,  let  me  tell  you.    . 


Tesman.  I  think  it  shows  quite  remarkable  soundness 
of  judgment.  He  never  wrote  like  that  before. —  But 
haven't  you  been  down  into  the  garden  and  had  a  look 
round,  Hedda  ?     Eh  ? 

Hedda.  No,  I  have  only  been  out  on  the  veranda  a 
little. 

Tesman.  Ah,  isn't  the  view  lovely  ?  Over  the  fiord 
and  the  islands  ?  (Goes  nearer  to  her.)  Well,  isn't  it 
nice  to  find  yourself  established  as  mistress  of  the  house 
it  had  always  been  your  dream  to  live  in  ? 

Hedda.     Yes,  wasn't  it  a  strange  piece  of  luck  ? 

Tesman    (putting  the  books  togetlier).     Now  I   shall 

take  all  these  into  my  study.     I'm  longing  to !     And 

then  I  must  change  my  clothes.  (To  Brack.)  I  suppose 
we  needn't  start  just  yet  ? 

Brack.     Oh,  dear  no — there  is  not  the  slightest  hurry. 

Tesman.  Well  then,  I  can  take  my  time.  (Is  going 
with  his  books  towards  the  inner  room,  but  stops  and  turns 


HEDDA  GABLER  403 

in  the  doorway.)     By-the-bye,  Hedda — I  looked  in  on 
the  aunts. 

Hedda  (by  tJie  door  of  the  veranda).  Yes,  I've  no 
doubt  you  did. 

Tesman.     Aunt  Jane  is  not  coming  to-day. 

Hedda  (turns  towards  him).  Not  coming?  Is  it 
that  affair  of  the  bonnet  that  keeps  her  away  ? 

Tesman.  Oh,  not  at  all.  How  could  you  think  such 
a  thing?     But  Aunt  Rina  is  very  ill  now. 

Hedda.     She  always  is. 

Tesman.     Yes,  but  to-day  she  was  much  worse. 

Hedda.  Oh,  then  it's  only  natural  that  her  sister 
should  remain  with  her.  I  must  bear  my  disappoint- 
ment. 

Tesman  (a  little  disappointed).  Of  course  this  does 
not  affect  you  so  nearly.  But  I  thought  I  would  tell  you, 
all  the  same. 

(He  goes  through  the  inner  room  and  oid  to  the  right.) 

Hedda  (goes  over  towards  the  stove) .  Oh,  those  ever- 
lasting aunts! 

Brack.     What  bonnet  were  you  talking  about? 

Hedda.  Oh,  it  was  a  little  episode  with  Miss  Rysing. 
She  has  such  extraordinary  manners  at  times.  This 
morning  she  had  pitched  her  bonnet  down  here  in  the 
drawing-room.  (Looks  at  him  and  smiles.)  And  I  pre- 
tended to  think  it  was  the  servant's. 

Brack  (shaking  his  head  in  disapproval).  Now  my 
dear  Mrs.  Hedda,  how  could  you  do  such  a  thing  ?  To 
that  excellent  old  lady,  too! 

Hedda  (moving  nervously  about).  Well,  you  see — 
these  impulses  come  over  me  all  of  a  sudden;  and  I  can- 
not resist  them.  And  then  to  suffer  torments  of  remorse 
— there  seems  to  be  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  it.     A  real — 


404  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

refinement  of  pleasure.     Oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  ex- 
plain it. 

(She  has  thrown  herself  into  the  easy-chair  by  the 
stove.) 

Brack  (behind  the  easy-chair).  You  are  not  really 
happy — that  is  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

Hedda  {looking  before  her).  I  know  of  no  reason  why 
I  should  be — happy.     Perhaps  you  can  give  me  one  ? 

Brack.  Well — amongst  other  things,  because  you 
have  got  exactly  the  home  you  had  set  your  heart  on. 

Hedda  (looks  up  at  him  and  laughs).  Do  you  believe 
in  that  legend  ? 

Brack.     Is  there  nothing  in  it,  then  ? 

Hedda.  Oh  yes,  there  is  something  in  it.  I'll  tell  you 
the  story. 

Brack.     Well  ? 

Hedda.  Some  time  ago,  when  there  were  evening  par- 
ties at  the  Consul  General's  country  house,  Tesman  used 
often  to  contrive  to  see  me  home 

Brack.  Yes,  yes,  he  was  very  attentive.  I  remember 
that. 

Hedda.  And  you  always  had  one  of  the  younger 
ladies  to  look  after. 

Brack.     And  then  I  had  to  go  quite  a  different  way — 

Hedda.  That's  true.  I  know  you  were  going  a  dif- 
ferent way  last  summer. 

Brack  (laughing).  Oh  fie,  Mrs.  Hedda!  Well,  then 
— Tesman ? 

Hedda.  Well,  it  happened  one  evening.  We  were 
just  passing  here.  And  Tesman  was  writhing  in  the 
agony  of  having  to  find  conversation,  poor  fellow.  So  I 
took  pity  on  him 

Brack  (smiles  doubtfully).     You  took  pity? 

Hedda.     Yes,  I  really  did.     And  so — to  help  him  out 


HEDDA   GABLER  405 

of  his  torment — I  happened  to  say,  in  pure  thoughtless- 
ness, that  I  should  like  to  live  in  this  villa.  And,  thank 
heaven — that  loosened  his  tongue. 

Brack.     No  more  than  that? 

Hedda.     Not  that  evening. 

Brack.     But  afterwards? 

Hedda.  Yes,  my  thoughtlessness  had  consequences, 
my  dear  Judge. 

Brack.  Unfortunately  that  too  often  happens,  Mrs. 
Hedda. 

Hedda.  Thanks!  But  all  through  the  winter,  when- 
ever we  met,  he  sat  down  and  talked  about  this  blessed 
villa.  How  nice  it  must  be  to  live  in  Secretary  Falk's 
villa. 

Brack.  But  then  you  contradicted  him,  of  course? 
As  you  always  do. 

Hedda.  No,  I  said  just  the  same  as  he.  For  Tes- 
man  is  not  one  of  the  men  that  it  is  any  pleasure  to  con- 
tradict. 

Brack.  And  you  really  cared  not  a  rap  about  it  all 
the  time  ? 

Hedda.     No,  heaven  knows  I  didn't. 

Brack.  But  now  ?  Now  that  it  has  been  made  so 
homelike  for  you! 

Hedda.  Uh,  the  rooms  all  seem  to  smell  of  lavender 
and  dried  rose-leaves. — But  perhaps  it's  Aunt  Jane  that 
has  brought  that  scent  with  her. 


(George  Tesman,  dressed  in  black,  with  his  gloves 
and  hat  in  his  hand,  enters  from  the  right  through 
the  inner  room.) 
Tesman.     No  answer  from  Lovborg,  Hedda  ?     Eh  ? 


406  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda.     No.     I  don't  suppose  he'll  send  any  answer. 
He'll  come  himself. 

Tesman  (to  Brack).     Well  then,  I  must  wait  for  him 
as  long  as  possible. 

Brack.     We  have  plenty  of  time  yet.     None  of  my 
guests  will  arrive  before  seven  or  half-past. 
Tesman.     Well  then,  that's  all  right. 

(He  places  his  hat  and  gloves  on  a  chair  on  the  right.) 
Hedda  (placing  Brack's  hat  and  overcoat  on  the  same 
chair).     And  at  the  worst  Mr.  Lovborg  can  remain  here 
with  me. 

Brack  (offering  to  take  his  tilings).     Oh,  allow   me. — 
What  do  you  mean  by  "At  the  worst"  ? 

Hedda.     That  he  won't  go  with  you  and  Tesman. 
Tesman  (looks  dubiously  at 'her).     But,  Hedda  dear — 
do  you  think  it  would   quite  do?     Remember,  Auntie 
can't  come. 

Hedda.     No,  but  Mrs.  Elfsted  is  coming.     We  three 
can  have  a  cup  of  tea  together. 

Brack.     Yes,  that  would  perhaps  be  the  safest  plan 
for  him. 

Hedda  (rather  sharply) .     Why  so  ? 
Brack.     You  were  saying  this  morning  that  you  knew 
what  my  bachelor  parties  were  like. 

(Berta  appears  at  the  hall  door.) 
Berta.     There's  a  gentleman  asking  if  you  are  at 

home,  ma'am 

Hedda.     Well,  show  him  in. 

(Berta  goes  old.) 

Tesman  (softly).     Hedda — you'll  see,  this  is  he. 

(Eilert  Lovborg  enters  from  tJie  hall.     He  is  slim 

and  lean;   of  the  same  age  as  Tesman,  bid  looks 

older  and  somewhat  worn  out.     His  hair  and  beard 

are  of  a  blackish  brown,  his  face   long,  delicately 


HEDDA   GABLER  -407 

stkaped  and  pale,  but  with  spots  of  colour  on  the 

cheek-bones.     He  is  dressed  in  a   well-cut  black 

visiting -suit,  quite  new,  the  frock-coat  rather  long. 

He  has  light  brown  gloves  and  a  silk  hat.     He 

carries  under  his  left  arm  a  small  portfolio  with 

papers  in  it.     He  stops  near  the  door  and  makes 

a  slight  bow,  seeming  somewhat  embarrassed.) 

Tesman   (goes  up  to  him  and  gives  him  his  hand). 

My  dear  Lovborg!     Well,  so  we  see  each  other  again  at 

last! 

Eilert  Lovborg  (speaks  in  a  subdued  voice) .  Thanks 
for  your  letter,  Tesman.  (Approaching  Hedda.)  May 
I  shake  hands  with  you  too,  Mrs.  Tesman  ? 

Hedda  (giving  him  her  hand).  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
(Introducing  him  with  a  motion  of  her  hand.)     I  don't 

know  whether  you  two  gentlemen ? 

Lovborg  {bowing  slightly).     Judge  Brack,  I  think. 
Brack  (bows).     Oh  yes — we  have  often  met. 
Tesman  (with  his  hand  on  Lovborg's  shoulder) .    Well, 
now  you  must  make  yourself  at  home!     (Bringing  him 
further  forward.)      So  I  hear  you  are  going  to  settle  in 
town  again. 

Lovborg.     Yes,  I  am. 

Tesman.  Quite  right,  quite  right.  Let  me  tell  you. 
I  have  got  hold  of  your  new  book. 

Lovborg  (indifferently).     Oh,  that  one. 
Tesman.     But  I  haven't  had  time  to  read  it  yet. 
Lovborg.     Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  you  may  spare  your- 
self the  trouble. 
Tesman.     Why  so? 

Lovborg.     Why,  because  there  is  very  little  in  it. 
Tesman.     Very  little  in  it! 

Brack.  But,  good  gracious,  it  has  been  very  much 
praised,  I  hear. 


408  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

L<5vborg.  Just  so.  That  was  what  I  wanted.  What 
served  my  purpose.  So  I  put  nothing  into  the  book  but 
what  ever}7  one  would  agree  to. 

Brack.     Very  wise  of  you. 

Tesman.     Well  but,  my  dear 

Lovborg.  I  had  to  win  myself  a  position  again — to 
make  an  absolutely  fresh  start. 

Tesman  (a  little  embarrassed).  Yes,  yes,  I  suppose 
you  had  to  do  that. 

Lovborg  (smiling,  lays  down  his  hat,  and  taps  the 
portfolio,  which  he  holds  out).  But  look  here — when 
this  one  appears — !  For  this — this  is  the  real  book. 
The  one  with  something  in  it. 

Tesman.     Indeed  ?     And  what  is  it  ? 

Lovborg.     It  is  the  continuation. 

Tesman  (looks  dubiously  at  him) .  The  continuation  ? 
Of  what  ? 

Lovborg.     Of  the  book. 

Tesman.     Of  the  new  book ? 

Lovborg.     Yes,  of  course. 

Tesman.  But,  my  dear  fellow — does  it  not  come 
down  to  our  own  days  ? 

Lovborg.  Certainly  it  does;  and  this  one  deals  with 
the  future. 

Tesman.  But,  my  dear  Lovborg — we  know  nothing 
of  the  future.     And  so  there  is  nothing  to  be  said  about  it. 

Lovborg  (smiling).  Oh  yes,  perhaps  there  is  a  thing 
or  two  to  be  said  about  it  all  the  same. 

Brack.  But  there  can't  possibly  be  anything — really 
scientific. 

Lovborg.  I  don't  trouble  myself  about  that  either. 
(To  Tesman,  showing  him  the  papers).  Look  here — • 
you  see.  I  have  divided  it  into  two  sections.  The  first 
section  deals  with  "The  civilising  forces  of  the  future." 


HEDDA   GABLER  409 

And  here  is  the  second — (running  through  the  pages 
towards  the  end) — here — forecasting  the  probable  line  of 
development. 

Tesman.  How  odd  now.  (Shakes  his  head.)  I  should 
never  have  thought  of  writing  anything  of  that  sort. 

Hedda  (at  the  glass  door,  drumming  on  the  pane). 
H'm!     I  dare  say  not. 

Lovborg  (shutting  up  the  portfolio) .  I  brought  it  with 
me,  thinking  I  might  read  you  a  little  of  it  this  evening. 

Tesman.  That  was  very  good  of  you,  Lovborg.  But 
this  evening — ?  (Looking  at  Brack.)  I  don't  quite  see 
how  we  could  manage  it 

Lovborg.  Well  then,  some  other  time.  There  is  no 
hurry  at  all. 

Brack.  I  must  tell  you,  Mr.  Lovborg — there  is  a  lit- 
tle gathering  at  my  house  this  evening.  In  honour  of  Tes- 
man, you  understand.     A  few  friends  are  coming. 

Lovborg  (looking  for  his  hat).  Oh — then  I  won't 
detain  you 

Tesman.     No,  no,  there's  time  enough. 

Brack.  No,  but  listen.  Will  you  not  do  me  the 
favour  of  joining  us  ? 

Lovborg  (with  slight  uneasiness) .  I  ?  No,  no ! 
Thank  you  very  much. 

Brack.  Oh,  nonsense — do!  We  shall  be  quite  a 
select  little  circle.  And  I  assure  you  we  shall  have  a 
"lively  time,"  as  Mrs.  Hed — as  Mrs.  Tesman  says. 

Lovborg.  Yes,  I  can  believe  that.  But  neverthe- 
less  

Brack.  And  then  you  might  bring  your  manuscript 
with  you,  and  read  it  to  Tesman  there.  I  could  give 
you  a  room  to  yourselves. 

Tesman.     Yes,  why  shouldn't  you  ? 

Hedda  (interposing).     But,  Tesman,  if  Mr.  Lovborg 


410  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

would  really  rather  not!     I  am  sure  Mr.  Lovborg  is  much 
more  inclined  to  remain  here  and  have  supper  with  me. 

Lovborg  {with  a  rapid  look  at  her).  With  you,  Mrs. 
Tesman ! 

Hedda.     And  with  Mrs.  Elfsted ■ 

Lovborg.     Ah ! 

Hedda.  — for  she  has  promised  to  come  this  evening. 
So  you  see  you  are  almost  bound  to  remain,  Mr.  Lovborg, 
or  she  will  have  no  one  to  see  her  home. 

Lovborg.  That's  true.  Many  thanks,  Mrs.  Tesman 
— in  that  case  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  remain. 

Hedda.     Then  I  have  one  or  two  orders  to  give 

(She  goes  to  the  hall  door  and  rings.  Berta  enters. 
Hedda  talks  to  her  in  a  whisper,  and  points  tow- 
ards the  inner  room*  Berta  nods  and  goes  out 
again.) 

Tesman  (at  the  same  time,  to  Eilert  Lovborg)  .  Tell 
me,  Lovborg — is  it  this  new  subject — the  future — that 
you  are  going  to  lecture  about? 

Lovborg.     Yes. 

Tesman.  I  have  heard  that  you  are  thinking  of  de- 
livering a  course  of  lectures  this  autumn. 

Lovborg.  That  is  my  intention.  I  hope  you  won't 
take  it  ill,  Tesman. 

Tesman.     Take  it  ill!     No,  not  in  the  least. 

Lovborg.  You  see,  I  can  quite  understand  that  it 
must  be  disagreeable  to  you 

Tesman.  Oh,  I  can't  expect  you,  out  of  considera- 
tion for  me,  to 

Brack.  And  then  it  is  not  the  first  time  in  your  lives 
that  you  two  friends  have  met  as  rivals 

Lovborg  (looking  rapidly  at  him).     Rivals? 

Hedda  (doing  likewise) .     How  ? 

Brack.     In    generous,    friendly    contest,    of    course. 


HEDDA   GABLER  411 

For  prize  medals  and  for  scholarships  and  for — many 
other  things. 

Tesman.  Yes,  in  those  days  you  carried  off  many  a 
victory,  my  dear  Lovborg. 

Lovborg.  Oh  yes — at  first.  But  latterly — .  I  have 
fallen  a  long  way  behind,  Tesman. 

Hedda.  But  now  you  can  catch  him  up  again,  Mr.  < 
Lovborg. 

Lovborg.     I  hope  to  be  able  to. 

Tesman  (in  suspense) .     To  win  ? 

Lovborg.  Yes.  If  not,  I  should  not  engage  in  a  con- 
test  

Brack.  Oh,  when  ,a  man  has  such  good  backing  as 
you  have 

Lovborg.  Backing?  Aha — you  refer  to  those  rela- 
tives of  mine,  who  run  about  and  give  themselves  so 
much  trouble 

Brack.     Ah,  then  you  have  heard  of  it  at  any  rate  ? 

Lovborg.  Yes,  I  was  told  about  it  to-day.  But  I  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  those  people.  I  decline  to  see 
them! 

Tesman.     But,  my  dear  Lovborg 

Hedda.     Will  you  reject  all  help  ? 

Lovborg.     Yes,  Mrs.  Tesman,  I  will. 

Brack.  But  why  in  the  world — !  Why  do  you  do  that  ? 

Lovborg.  Because  I  wish  to  owe  the  victory  to  myself. 
To  my  own  powers. 

Tesman.     And — and  do  you  think  you  will  win  ? 

Lovborg.     Yes,  I  am  sure  of  it. 

Tesman.  And  that — it  will  be  you  who — who  will 
get  the  appointment? 

Lovborg  (looks  at  him  in  astonishment).  Appoint- 
ment? — Is  it  that  professorship  you  are  talking  about? 

Tesman.     Yes,  of  course. 


412  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Lovborg.  Is  that  what  you  think  I  am  competing 
with  you  for? 

Tesman.  But,  bless  my  soul,  what  else  should  it  be? 
If  it  isn't  the  appointment,  why 

Lovborg.  I  wouldn't  accept  that  appointment  at 
any  price.  Such  a  position  is  not  the  thing  for  me.  I 
have  found  that  out  while  I  was  in  the  country. 

Brack.  Then  it  is  only  the  honour  and  glory  you  will 
compete  for? 

Lovborg  (softly,  with  diffidence).  Honour  and  glory 
mean  much  to  a  man  with — well — with  a  past  like  mine. 

Tesman  (pressing  his  hands) .  Yes,  yes,  Lovborg,  I  can 
quite  understand.  Thanks — now  I  recognise  your  old 
self.  (Joyfully,  to  Hedda.)  Well,  what  do  you  say  to 
that!  Only  the  honour  and -glory!  He  is  not  going  to 
stand  in  our  way. 

Hedda  (curtly,  looking  at  him).  Our  way?  Pray 
leave  me  out  of  the  question. 

(She  goes  up  towards  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  where 
Berta  is  placing  a  tray  with  decanters  and  glasses 
on  the  table.  Hedda  nods  approval,  and  comes 
forward  again.  Berta  goes  out  on  the  right  of  the 
inner  room.) 

Tesman  (at  the  same  time).  And  you,  Judge — what 
do  you  say  ? 

Brack.  Well,  I  say  that  honour  and  glory  are  fine 
things.  And  an  old  friendship — is  an  exceedingly  last- 
ing bond 

Tesman.     Yes,  certainly  it  is;    but  all  the  same 

Lovborg.  What  I  can't  understand  is  that  you  could 
think  so  ill  of  me. 

Tesman.     Yes,  think  of  my  being  able  to  do  that! 

Hedda  (looking  at  Tesman  and  smiling).  You 
[stand  there]  iook[-ing]  as  if  you  were  thunderstruck. 


HEDDA   GABLER  413 

Tesman.     Yes,  so  I  am 

Brack.  Don't  you  see,  Mrs.  Tesman,  a  thunderstorm 
has  just  passed  over? 

Tesman.  But  tell  me,  Lovborg — what  are  you  think- 
ing of  doing? 

Lovborg.     I  am  going  to  live  as  a  free  man. 

Brack.  A  pleasant  occupation.  But  it  doesn't  bring 
in  much. 

Lovborg.     I  don't  want  much  either.     Not  now. 

Tesman.  No,  and  besides — when  one  is  alona.  With 
no  one  but  one's  self  to  look  after.  I  should  think  you 
would  get  on  quite  well. 

Hedda  (pointing  towards  the  inner  room).  Will  you 
not  [go  in  and]  take  a  glass  of  iced  punch,  gentlemen  ? 

Brack  (looking  at  his  luatch) .  A  stirrup-cup  ?  Yes, 
it  wouldn't  come  amiss. 

Tesman.  A  capital  idea,  Hedda!  A  capital  idea! 
Now  that  the  weight  has  been  lifted 

Hedda.     Won't  you  go  in  ?     You  too,  Mr.  Lovborg. 

Lovborg  (with  a  gesture  of  refusal).  No,  thank  you. 
Nothing  for  me! 

Tesman.     Oh  yes,  do!     Come  and  join  us. 

Lovborg.     No,  no,  many  thanks.     Nothing  at  all. 

Brack.  Why  bless  me — iced  punch  is  surely  not 
poison. 

Lovborg.     No,  perhaps  not  for  every  one. 

Hedda.  I  will  keep  Mr.  Lovborg  company  in  the 
meantime. 

Tesman.     Yes,  yes,  Hedda  dear — do. 

(He  and  Brack  go  into  the  inner  room,  seat  them- 
selves at  the  table,  drink  punch,  smoke  cigars,  and 
chat  during  what  follows.  Eilert  Lovborg 
remains  standing  beside  the  stove.  Hedda  goes 
to  the  writing -table.) 


414  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda  (turns  her  head  and  says  in  a  rather  loud  voice :) 
Now  I  will  show  you  some  photographs,  Mr.  Lovborg. 
You  know  Tesman  and  I  made  a  tour  in  the  Tyrol  on 
our  way  home? 

(She  brings  an  album,  and  places  it  on  the  table  beside 

the  sofa,  in  the  further  corner  of  which  she  seats 

herself.     Lovborg  approaches,  stops,  and  looks  at 

her.     Then  he  takes  a  chair  and  seats  himself  to 

her  left,  with  his  back  towards  the  inner  room.) 

Hedda  (opening  the  album).     Do  you  see  this  range 

of   mountains  ?     It's   the    Ortler   group.     Tesman    has 

written  the  name  underneath.     Here  it  is :     "  The  Ortler 

group  near  Meran." 

Lovborg  (who  has  never  taken  his  eyes  off  her,  says 
softly  and  slowly:)     Hedda — ty abler! 

Hedda  (glances  hastily  at  him,  and  says  softly:)  Ah! 
—Hush! 

Lovborg  (repeats  softly,  in  a  pained  voiced)  Hedda 
Gabler! 

Hedda  (looking  at  the  album).  That  was  my  name  in 
the  old  days — when  we  knew  each  other. 

Lovborg.     And  now — as  long  as  I  live — I  must  teach 

myself  to  say  Mrs. — Tesman 

Hedda  (still  turning  over  the  pages).  Yes.  And  I 
think  you  ought  to  practise  in  time.  The  sooner  the 
better,  I  should  say. 

Lovborg.     Married.     Married  to  another ! 

Hedda.     Yes — so  the  world  goes. 
Lovborg.   Oh,  Hedda — Hedda — how  could  you  do  it! 
Hedda  (looks  sharply  at  him) .     What!     I  can't  allow 
this! 
Lovborg.     What  ? 

(Tesman  comes  from  the  inner  room  and  goes  towards 
the  sofa.) 


HEDDA   GABLER  415 

Hedda  (calmly,  in  her  usual  voice).  And  this,  Mr. 
Lovborg — is  a  view  from  the  Val  d'Ampezzo.  Look  at 
these  peaks.  (Looks  up  at  Tesman.)  What's  the  name 
of  these  curious  peaks  ? 

Tesman  (looking  more  closely).  Those?  Oh,  those 
are  the  Dolomites. 

Hedda.  Yes,  that's  it. — Those  are  the  Dolomites, 
Mr.  Lovborg. 

Tesman  (to  Hedda)  .  I  only  wanted  to  ask  whether  I 
shouldn't  bring  you  a  little  punch  ?  Or  wine,  perhaps  ? 
For  yourself  at  any  rate. 

Hedda.     Yes,  please.     And  a  few  biscuits. 

Tesman.     No  cigarettes  ? 

Hedda.     No  [,     many  thanks]. 

Tesman.     Very  well. 

(He  goes  into  tlie  inner  room  and  out  to  the  right. 
Brack  sits  in  the  inner  room,  and  keeps  an  eye 
from  time  to  time  on  Hedda  and  Lovborg.  Soon 
after,  Tesman  again  appears  and  seats  himself  at 
the  table  with  Brack.) 

Lovborg  (softly,  as  before).  Answer  me,  Hedda — how 
could  you  go  and  do  this  ? 

Hedda  (apparently- absorbed  in  the  album).  If  you  say 
du  to  me  I  won't  talk  to  you. 

Lovborg.     May  I  not  say  du  even  when  we  are  alone  ? 

Hedda.  No.  You  may  think  it;  but  you  mustn't 
say  it. 

Lovborg.     Why  not — exactly  ? 

Hedda.  Because  I  should  look  upon  it  as  a  sort  of 
unfaithfulness  towards  Tesman.  And  I  won't  hear  of 
that. 

Lovborg.  Is  it  really  possible  that  such  a  trifle 
offends  your  love  for  him  ? 


416  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda  (glances  at  him  and  smiles).  Love?  What 
an  idea! 

Lovborg.     I  don't  understand  you,  Hedda. 
Hedda.     Do  you  believe  that  anything  so  wonderful 
exists  ? 

Lovborg.     As  love  ? 

Hedda.  Yes.  For  I  don't.  I  believe  it's  only  some- 
thing that  people  have  invented.  And  that  they  go  about 
discussing. 

(In  the  meantime  Berta  has  entered  from  the  right 
in  the  inner  room,  bringing  a  smaller  tray  with 
punch,   wine   and   biscuits,   which   she   places  on 
the  table  of  the  inner  room,  going  out  again  on  the 
same  side.     Tesman  takes  up  the  tray  and  brings 
it  into  the  drawing-room.) 
Tesman.     Here  you  are!     Isn't  this  tempting? 
Hedda.     Why  do  you  bring  it  yourself? 
Tesman    (filing   the  glasses).     Because   I   think   it's 
fun  to  wait  upon  you,  Hedda. 

Hedda.     But  you  have  poured  out  two  glasses.     Mr. 

Lovborg  said  he  wouldn't  have  any 

Tesman.     Mrs.  Elfsted  will  soon  be  here,  won't  she  ? 

Hedda.     Yes,  by-the-bye — Mrs.  Elfsted ! 

Tesman.     Had  you  forgotten  her? 
Hedda.     Oh,  we  were  so  absorbed  in  these  photo- 
graphs.— Tesman — what  is  the  name  of  this  little  village  ? 
Tesman  (goes  round  to  her).     Which?     Let  me  see. — 
Oh,  that's  Gossensass,  by  the  Brenner  Pass.     It  was 

there  we  stayed  more  than  a  day 

Hedda.     Yes,  and  met  that  lively  party. 
Tesman.     Yes,  of  course  it  was  there. 

(He  returns  to  the  inner  room  and  sits  beside  Brack.) 
Lovborg.     Not  in  our  friendship  either? 
Hedda.     What  ? 


HEDDA   GABLER  417 

Lovborg.  Was  there  no  love  in  it?  Not  a  single 
spark — not  a  tinge  of  love  in  the  whole  of  it  ? 

Hedda.     I  wonder? 

Lovborg.     None  at  all  on  your  side  then  ? 

Hedda.  To  me  it  seems  as  though  we  were  two  good 
comrades — two  intimate  friends.  You  especially  were 
frankness  itself. 

Lovborg.  I  fear  I  was  too  frank.  But  it  was  you 
that  made  me  so.  Oh,  Hedda — why  should  not  that,  at 
any  rate,  have  continued,  as  it  was  then! 

Hedda.  The  fault  was  yours  that  it  could  not. 
Yours — and  that  of  the  life  you  were  leading. 

Lovborg.     Yes,  I  know.     I  know  that  well    enough. 

Hedda  (looking  at  him).  I  think  there  was  something 
beautiful — something  almost  fascinating — in — in  that 
secret  intimacy  which  no  living  creature  so  much  as 
dreamed  of. 

Lovborg.  Yes,  yes,  Hedda!  Was  there  not? 
(Pauses  for  a  moment  and  looks  before  him.)  When  I 
used  to  come  to  your  father's  in  the  afternoon — and  the 
General  sat  over  at  the  window  reading  his  papers — with 
his  back  towards  us 

Hedda.     And  you  and  I  on  the  corner  sofa 


Lovborg.     With  the  illustrated  magazines,  Hedda 

Hedda.     Just  as  we  are  now  with  this  album. 

Lovborg.  Yes,  and  when  I  made  my  confessions  to 
you — told  you  about  myself,  things  that  at  that  time  no 
one  else  knew.  Told  you  of  my  escapades — my  days 
and  nights  of  devilment. — Oh,  Hedda — what  was  the 
power  in  you  that  drove  me  to  confess  these  things  ? 

Hedda  (starts,  and  looks  at  him).  Do  you  think  it 
was  any  power  in  me  ? 

Lovborg.  How  else  can  I  explain  it  ?  And  all  those 
— roundabout  questions — you  used  to  put  to  me 


418  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda.  Which  you  understood  so  particularly 
well 

Lovborg.  But  how  could  you  sit  and  question  me 
like  that  ?     Question  me  about — all  that  sort  of  thing  ? 

Hedda.  And  how  could  you  answer,  Mr.  Lov- 
borg  ? 

Lovborg.  Well,  a  man — .  But  tell  me  now,  Hedda 
— was  there  not  love  at  the  bottom  of  this  ?  On  your 
side  ?  Was  it  not  all  because  you  felt  as  though  you 
might  purge  my  stains  away — if  I  made  you  my  confes- 
sor?    Was  it  not  so? 

Hedda.     No,  not  quite. 

Lovborg.     But  what  was  your  motive,  then  ? 

Hedda  (with  slight  hesitatiun).  Do  you  think  it  so 
strange  that  a  lady — when  it  can  be  done — without  any 
one  knowing 

Lovborg.     Well  ? 

Hedda.  — should  be  glad  to  have  a  peep,  now  and 
then,  into  a  world  which 

Lovborg.     Which  ? 

Hedda.  — which  she  is  forbidden  to  know  anything 
about?  [To  me  you  were  like  a  messenger  from  a  for- 
bidden country.] 

Lovborg  {looking  at  her).     So  that  was  it? 

Hedda.     Partly.     Partly — I  almost  think. 

Lovborg.  But  why  could  not  things  go  on  between 
us  ?  As  they  were  then  ?  Why  did  you  break  it  all  off 
so  suddenly  ? 

Hedda.     Do  you  need  to  be  told  that? 

Lovborg.     Certainly.     Tell  me! 

Hedda.  Have  you  forgotten  your  abominable  beha- 
viour— on  a  certain  occasion  ?  The  last  time  we  were 
alone. 


HEDDA   GABLER  419 

Lovborg.  Oh,  don't  remind  me  of  that!  But  I  have 
an  impression  that  it  was  not  that  which  caused  the  rup- 
ture. 

Hedda.  No,  not  exactly.  But  from  such  a  person  as 
you  were  then,  I  might  expect — I  was  going  to  say — 
anything. 

Lovborg.  Oh,  you  certainly  had  no  need  to  fear  a 
repetition. 

Hedda.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  the  whole  town 
got  to  know  what  kind  of  a  life  you  were  leading.  What 
kind  of  company  you  had  got  into. 

Lovborg.  I  don't  think,  though,  that  I  took  any  pains 
to  conceal  it.     I  did  it  in  defiance! 

Hedda.  And  that  is  why  all  the  best  houses  were 
closed  to  you. 

Lovborg.  Yes,  the  others.  But  that  you — you, 
Hedda ! 

Hedda.     Of  course  we  had  to  do  as  the  others. 

Lovborg.  Yes,  but — that  is  precisely  what  I  had 
never  imagined. 

Hedda.  Well — fortunately  you  soon  consoled  your- 
self in  the  country. 

Lovborg.     Not  so  soon  as  you  think. 

Hedda.     No  ? 

Lovborg.  But  as  I  never  heard  any  more  from  you 
— never  had  a  word  in  answer  to  my  letters 

Hedda.  It  is  imprudent  to  put  things  in  writing. 
And  besides — I  ended  by  giving  you  a  sufficiently  plain 
answer — in  deeds. 

Lovborg.  Yes,  you  went  and  married  another.  When 
I  heard  that,  it  was  quite  natural  that  I  should  try  to 
console  myself,  as  you  call  it. 

Hedda.     I'm  sure  I  quite  agree. 


420  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Lovborg.     But,   by-the-bye,   how  do  you  know  all 
this  ?     Mrs.  Elfsted  must  have  told  you  something. 

Hedda.  Mrs.  Elfsted  has  told  me — most  of  it — 
Ought  she  not  to  have  done  so  ? 

Lovborg.     Yes,  to  you,  Hedda — with  all  my  heart. 

Hedda.  But — now  that — happily — you  are  on  your 
feet  again — .  Do  you  know  what  I  think  so  very  strange 
in  you  ? 

Lovborg.     Well  ? 

Hedda.  That  you  should  sit  here  lamenting  over  an 
old  story  like  this.  Over  something  which  now,  I  should 
think,  must  be — what  shall  I  call  it? — a  sort  of  exercise 
of  your  memory. 

Lovborg.  Then  do  you  too  labour  under  the  preju- 
dice that  a  man  can  only  feei  love  for  one  woman — at  a 
time? 

Hedda  (looking  before  her  for  a  moment).  W7ell — per- 
haps you're  right  in — (half  turned  toivards  him).  What 
is  one  really  to  believe — if  that  be  so  ? 

Lovborg.  Oh,  I  entirely  forgot  that  you  don't  believe 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  love. 

Hedda  (turning  over  the  'pages  of  the  album).  You 
mustn't  take  everything  I  say  so  literally,  either. 

Lovborg  (looks  at  her  a  moment,  and  whispers  passion- 
ately). Oh,  Hedda!  Hedda  Gabler!  Now  I  begin  to 
see  a  hidden  meaning  beneath  all  you  have  been  saying. 

Hedda  (softly,  with  a  glance).  Take  care!  Believe 
nothing  of  the  sort! 

(The  hall  door  is  opened  from  without  by  Berta.) 

Hedda  (closes  the  album  with  a  bang  and  calls  smil- 
ingly).    Ah,  at  last!     My  darling  Thea — come  along! 
(Mrs.  Elfsted  enters,  without  her  cloak.     She  is  in 
evening  dress.     The  door  is  closed  behind  her.) 


HEDDA   GABLER  421 

Hedda  (on  the  sofa,  stretches  out  her  arms  towards  her) . 
Oh,  Thea — you  can't  think  how  I  have  been  longing  for 
you  all  this  time! 

(Mrs.  Elfsted  goes  up  to  the  table  and  gives  Hedda 
her  hand.  Lovborg  has  risen  from  his  chair. 
He  and  Mrs.  Elfsted  greet  each  other  with  a 
silent  nod.) 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (ivho  remains  standing).  Ought  I  not 
to  sav  good  evening  to  vour  husband  too  ? 

Hedda.  Oh,  leave  those  two  where  they  are.  They 
are  going  soon. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Are  they  going  out? 

Hedda.     Yes,  to  a  bachelor  party. 

Mrs.  Elfsted  {involuntarily) .    Not  you,  Mr.  Lovborg  ? 

Lovborg.     No. 

Hedda.     No,  Mr.  Lovborg  remains  with  you  and  me. 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (takes  a  chair  and  is  about  to  seat  her- 
self).    Ah,  how  nice  it  is  here! 

Hedda.  No,  thank  you.  Not  there!  You'll  be  good 
enough  to  come  over  here  to  me.     I  will  sit  between  you. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Yes,  just  as  you  please. 

(She  goes  round  the  table  and  seats  herself  on  the  sofa 
on  Hedda's  right.     Lovborg  also  seats  himself) 

Lovborg  (after  a  short  pause,  to  Hedda).  Is  not  she 
lovely  to  look  at? 

Hedda.     Only  to  look  at? 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (anxiously  to  Hedda).  Oh,  but  does 
he  know ? 

Hedda.     Of  course  he  knows 

Lovborg.  You  were  quite  right  to  tell  Hedda  every- 
thing. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Thank  heaven !  I  was  so  afraid  you 
would  not  like  it. 


422  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda.  You  afraid!  When  you  have  such  power 
over  him  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  I  have  no  power  in  reality.  If 
we  share  our  thoughts  and  opinions,  it  is  purely  volun- 
tary on  both  sides. 

Lovborg  (to  Hedda).  Yes.  We  two — she  and  I — 
we  are  two  good  comrades.  Frank,  trusty  comrades. 
A  man  and  a  woman  who  have  absolute  faith  in  each 
other — though  our  fellowship  is  one  of  perfect  freedom. 
And  then  she  is  so  brave,  Hedda! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Good  heavens — am  I  brave  ? 

Lovborg.  Perhaps  not  in  other  ways.  But  exceed- 
ingly, where  your  comrade  is  concerned. 

Hedda.    Ah,  courage — courage.    If  one  only  had  that. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  There  was  nothing  so  very  coura- 
geous in  coming  away  when 

Lovborg.  Oh  yes,  dear  friend,  it  takes  a  good  deal  of 
courage  to  leave  one's  husband.  To  leave  house  and 
home.     And  all  to  throw  in  one's  lot  freely  with  another. 

Hedda.  Yes,  I  certainly  think  so  too,  Thea.  (Lightly 
stroking  her  hair.)  I  can't  imagine — no,  I  don't  under- 
stand how  you  could  do  it.  How  you  could  dare  actually 
to  set  about  it. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  But  there  was  nothing  else  to  be 
done.  I  could  not  possibly  stay  up  there  alone — with 
— with 

Hedda.     — with  the  other? 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (hides  her  face  in  her  hands  and  leans 
her  head  on  Hedda's  shoulder).     Oh,  Hedda — Hedda! 

Hedda.  And  then  the  worst  part  of  it  all!  It  will  be 
impossible  to  keep  this  a  secret  for  long. 

Lovborg.  That  she  has  left  her  home,  yes.  That 
will  soon  be  common  property.  But  no  one  except  you 
will  know  that  she  did  it  to  be  with  me. 


HEDDA  GABLER  423 

Mes.  Elfsted  (to  Hedda).  No,  that  must  not  come 
out  for  the  world!  You  won't  say  anything  to  Tesman, 
will  you  ? 

Hedda.     Not  to  any  living  soul,  Thea  dear. 

Lovborg.  For  I  have  to  make  a  fresh  start.  And  a 
man  with  a  past  like  mine—.  H'm!  One  knows  pretty 
well  how  people  would  interpret  such  a  connection. 
She  too  would  be  dragged  in  the  mire. 

Hedda  (looking  before  her).  Yes,  if  only  we  could  be 
free  of— of  what  people  think 


(There  is  a  general  leave-taking.  Judge  Brack, 
Lovborg  and  Tesman  go  out  by  the  hall  door.  At 
the  same  time,  Berta  brings  in  two  lamps  through 
the  inner  room,  places  them  on  the  tables  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  goes  out  again  through  the 
inner  room.) 
Mrs.  Elfsted.  Hedda— Hedda— what  will  come  of 
all  this  ? 

Hedda.  We  shall  see  about  ten  o'clock. 
Mrs.  Elfsted  (rises  and  crosses  the  room).  I  only 
hope  we  may.  But  you  don't  know  him  so  well  as  I  do. 
Hedda.  Can  he  be  so  pitiful  as  that!  With  such  a 
thirst,  such  a  devouring  thirst  for  all  that  he  calls  the 
joys  of  life,  and  then— not  daring  to  take  even  a  sip  of 
them ! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Ah  yes,  Hedda,  unhappily  it  is  true. 

Hedda    (rising).     It   is   not   true!     You   may   doubt 

him  as  long  as  you  please.     I  believe  in  him!     Now  we 

will  try 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     You  have  some  hidden  motive  in 
this,  Hedda! 


424  FROM   IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 

Hedda.     Yes,  I  have.     I  want  for  once  in  my  life  to 
have  power  over  a  human  mind. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Have  you  not  the  power? 

Hedda.     I  have  not  and  have  never  had  it. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Not  your  husband's  ? 

Hedda.    His!    Do  you  think  that  is  worth  the  trouble ? 
Oh,  if  you  could  only  understand  how  poor  I  am. 

(Clasps  her  passionately  in  her  arms.) 

Mrs.    Elfsted.     Let   me   go!     Let   me   go!     I    am 
afraid  of  you,  Hedda! 

Berta  (from  the  inner  room) .     Tea  is  laid  in  the  din- 
ing-room, ma'am.      (Goes  out  again.) 

Hedda.     Very  well!     Come  along  to  tea,  you  little — - 
you  lucky  little  stupid! 

(She  drags  Mrs.  Elfsted  almost  by  force  towards 
the  door  at  the  back.) 


FROM  THE  THIRD  ACT 

Hedda  (goes  towards  her).  There  there  there! 
There's  nothing  to  be  so  alarmed  about.  I  know  quite 
well  what  has  happened. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Well,  what  do  you  think?  Won't 
you  tell  me? 

Hedda.  Why — of  course  it  has  been  a  pretty  late 
affair  at  Judge  Brack's.  These  bachelors  generally  make 
things  rather  lively. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Yes,  yes,  yes — that  is  clear  enough! 

Hedda.  And  Tesman  hasn't  cared  to  come  home  and 
ring  us  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  He  didn't  want 
to  disturb  me.  (Laughing.)  Perhaps  he  wasn't  in- 
clined to  show  himself  either — immediately  after  a 
jovial  party. 


HEDDA  GABLER  425 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  But  in  that  case — where  can  he 
have  gone? 

Hedda.  Of  course  he  has  gone  to  those  blessed 
Aunts'  and  slept  there.  They  have  his  old  room  ready 
for  him. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  No,  he  can't  be  with  them;  for  a 
letter  has  just  come  for  him  from  Miss  Rysing.  There 
it  lies. 

Hedda.  Indeed  ?  (Looks  at  the  address.)  Why  yes, 
it's  addressed  in  Aunt  Jane's  own  hand.  Well  then — ■ 
he  is  staying  behind  at  Judge  Brack's — he  too. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  He  too  ?  Do  you  mean  that  Lov- 
borg ? 

Hedda.  Yes,  Lovborg  is  certainly  there  still.  Other- 
wise he  would  have  come  to  fetch  you. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh  Hedda,  you  are  just  saying 
things  you  don't  believe  a  bit. 

Hedda.  Well,  bless  me — even  if  it's  as  bad  as  you 
think  ?     What  of  it  ?     Once  doesn't  count. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  that's  just  what  does  not  apply 
here.     Here  least  of  all! 


Tesman  (sits  down  heavily  to  the  left  of  the  table).  En- 
joyed myself?  Oh,  Hedda — I'm  afraid  it  will  take  me 
a  long  time  to  get  over  to-night. 

Hedda.     You!     But  you  are  always  moderate 

Tesman.     Yes,  of  course.     I  didn't  mean  that 

Hedda  (in  suspense).  What  became  of  Eilert  Lov- 
borg?    Why  didn't  he  come  back? 

Tesman.  Well,  you  see,  Hedda,  that  is  just  it.  And 
I  can't  get  rid  of  the  distressing  thought  that  it  was  all 
my  fault. 

Hedda.     But  what  was  your  fault? 


4*6  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Tesman.     I  must  tell  you  the  whole  story. 

Hedda.     Yes,  yes,  do. 

(She  seats  herself  on  the  other  side  of  the  table.) 

Tesman.  It  began  well  enough.  Nobody  chaffed 
him.  And  nobody  tempted  him  either.  He  and  I  were 
able  to  sit  by  ourselves  in  one  of  the  side  rooms.  And 
then  he  read  to  me.  Long  extracts  from  the  new  book 
that  is  coming  out. 

Hedda.     Well  ? 

Tesman.  You  can't  imagine  what  a  book  that  is  go- 
ing to  be,  Hedda!  So  grand  both  in  design  and  execu- 
tion  

Hedda.  Yes,  yes,  I  don't  care  about  that.  And  it 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  story  either. 

Tesman.  Yes,  it  has.  It  is  the  very  kernel  of  it,  you 
see. 

Hedda.     How  ? 

Tesman.  As  I  sat  listening  to  him — .  It  seemed 
as  if  a  rustling  flight  of  ideas  were  darting  over  my  head. 
I  felt  myself  filled  with  a  wealth  of  intuition,  which  I 
only  half  understood. 

Hedda.     Could  you  not  understand  it? 

Tesman.  Not  altogether,  I  say.  And  then  came 
that  gnawing  thought,  that  has  haunted  me  and  that  I 
have  thrust  away  from  me — ever  since  our  school-days. 

Hedda.     What  thought  ? 

Tesman.     That  Eilert  Lovborg  is  really  my  superior. 

Hedda.  But  what  if  he  is?  He  has  no  intention  of 
competing  with  you  for  the  appointment. 

Tesman.  Every  one  who  reads  his  new  book  will 
say  that  he  was  the  right  man.  And  therefore  I  could 
not  resist  it.     Oh,  Hedda,  what  evil  may  lie  hid  in  a  man ' 

Hedda.     Tell  me  more  about  this! 


HEDDA   GABLER  427 

Tesman.  Then  some  more  lively  companions  joined 
us.  They  had  been  to  a  big  dinner-party.  Came 
straight  from  table. 

Hedda.     And  then  it  began  ? 

Tesman.  Yes,  then  came  the  orgie.  I  saw  it  was 
coming.  And  I  saw  too  that  it  seemed  to  carry  Eilert 
Lovborg  away. 

Hedda.     Could  he  not  resist? 

Tesman.  Neither  could  nor  would.  I  saw  what  it 
would  lead  to.  And — just  think — I  did  nothing  to  save 
him. 

Hedda.     Oh,  I  suppose  there  was  nothing  to  be  done. 

Tesman.  Yes,  I  might  have  tried  to  get  him  home 
with  me.  Might  have  reminded  him  of  hi?  promise  to 
Mrs.  Elfsted. 

Hedda.  Oh  yes.  Do  you  think  that  would  have 
been  any  use? 

Tesman.  Yes,  I  think  so.  For  she  has  a  power  over 
him  that  nobody  else  has. 

Hedda.     How  do  you  know  that? 

Tesman.     I  could  understand  that  from  all  he  said. 

Hedda     What  did  he  say! 

Tesman.  That  the  whole  of  his  new  work  came  to  him 
as  an  inspiration  from  her. 

Hedda.  And  in  spite  of  that — he  wallowed  in  th  ^se 
orgies 

Tesman.     Deeper  than  you  have  any  idea  of. 

Hedda.     What  became  of  him  ? 

Tesman.  He  went  off  with  a  lot  of  the  others.  But 
where  they  went  I  don't  know.  Both  Brack  and  I  went 
to  his  rooms  and  rang.     But  he  hadn't  come  home. 

Hedda.  That  was  to  be  expected.  And  you  don't 
know  any  more  ? 


428  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Tesman.  No.  Brack  and  I  separated,  so  as  to  in- 
quire in  different  directions.  But  they  knew  nothing 
about  him,  where  I  went.  He  must  have  gone  by  him- 
self  

Hedda.     And  Brack ? 

Tesman.  I  haven't  seen  him  since.  Oh,  that  un- 
happy fellow — !  Now  he  is  down  again.  And  then 
after  all — Hedda — to  think  that 

Hedda.     What  ?     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Tesman.  That  I  let  him  go.  That  I  could  sit  there 
secretly  wishing  that  he  would  go  and  ruin  himself  for 
ever. — Am  I  better  than  he?  In  my  inmost  heart!  If 
this  is  the  end  of  him,  that  question  will  never  leave  me 
any  peace. 

Hedda.  I  don't  think  there's  any  use  in  brooding 
over  things  of  that  sort. 

Tesman.  But  his  conduct  last  night  cannot  possibly 
have  been  more  $han  a  passing  aberration.  There  was 
such  profound  sincerity  in  the  way  he  spoke  of  her. 

Hedda.     Was  there  ? 

Tesman.  I  don't  understand  him.  Can't  conceive 
how  it  is  with  him. 

Hedda.  Let  him  fall,  Tesman.  He  is  irretrievable 
after  all. 

Tesman.  Oh,  don't  let  us  think  that. — I  was  able  to 
do  him  one  service. 

Hedda.     Last  night? 

Tesman.  Yes.  (Taking  Lovborg's  portfolio  out  of 
his  coat  pocket.)     I  rescued  this  for  him. 

Hedda.     His  new  book! 

Tesman.  Yes;  as  we  were  leaving.  He  and  some  of 
the  others  were  a  little  way  in  front.  I  heard  him  shout- 
ing and  making  a  noise.     And  as  I  was  hurrying  after 


HEDDA   GABLER  429 

them  to  try  to  quiet  him,  I  found  the  portfolio  lying  by 
the  wayside.     He  had  lost  it. 

Hedda.     Let  me  see  it. 

Tesman  (handing  her  the  portfolio).  Here  it  is. 
Just  think  if  that  had  been  lost.  And  it  might  have 
been  so  easily. 

Hedda  (turning  over  the  papers).  This  is  not  Lov- 
borg's  handwriting. 

Tesman.  Mrs.  Elfsted  wrote  parts  of  it  for  him. 
From  loose  notes,  he  said. 

Hedda.  So  that  is  how  they  sat  working  together. 
(Shuts  her  eyes.)     I  seem  to  be  able  to  see  them. 

Tesman.  You  too  might  work  with  me  in  the  same 
way,  Hedda.     Might  help  me — if  you  cared  to. 

Hedda.  You! — (Looking  at  him  and  tapping  the 
portfolio  with  her  finger.)  Well,  Tesman — what  are  you 
going  to  do  with  this  ? 

Tesman.  Do  with  it,  dear?  Give  it  him  back,  of 
course. 

Hedda.     Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  that  is  what  you  will  do. 

Tesman.  But  he  shall  have  a  good  fright  first.  Put 
it  away  in  the  writing-table  drawer.     And  say  nothing. 

Hedda.  You  said  nothing  to  him  about  having 
found  it  ? 

Tesman.  No,  of  course  not.  In  the  unmanageable 
state  he  was  in. 

Hedda.     Did  any  of  the  others  see  you  find  it  ? 

Tesman.     No,  none  of  them. 

Hedda.  And  you  didn't  tell  any  of  them  afterwards 
either  ? 

Tesman.     No,  I  wouldn't  do  that  for  his  sake. 

Hedda.     So  no  one  knows  what  has  become  of  it  ? 

Tesman.  No.  And  he  shall  wait  a  little  while  before 
he  is  told. 


430  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda  (goes  to  the  writing-table  and  places  the  port* 
folio  underneath  some  books) .  There.  He  shall  never  get 
this  back. 

Tesman  (springing  up).  But,  Hedda — what  are  you 
thinking  of!     What  do  you  means 

Hedda.  This  must  be  got  rid  of.  [Were  you  not 
thinking  of  getting  rid  of  this  ?] 

Tesman.     What  has  come  over  you  ? 

Hedda.  Do  you  think  he  would  be  able  to  write  it 
over  again? 

Tesman.  Impossible.  The  inspiration  would  be  lack- 
ing the  second  time. 

Hedda.  Take  it  and  burn  it.  Then  it  will  be  done 
with. 

Tesman.     But  you  must  be  mad. 

Hedda.  You  must  do  it.  I  must  see  whether  I  have 
any  power  over  you. 

Tesman.     Oh,  you  know  quite  well  you  have. 

Hedda.     Not  altogether.     I  know  I  have  over  him. 

Tesman.     Over  him! 

Hedda.  It  was  I  who  made  him  go  to  Judge  Brack's 
drinking-party. 

Tesman.     Oh,  Hedda,  but  how  could  you  do  that! 

Hedda.  It  came  over  me  with  such  force.  So  irre- 
sistibly. I  had  to  see  whether  I  could  tempt  him  to  his 
fall. 

Tesman.     And  it  turned  out  that  you  could. 

Hedda.  Yes.  But  this  must  be  the  end  of  it.  He 
must  go  away  from  here. 

Tesman.     Away!     For  your  sake! 

Hedda.     Yes.     If  not,  I  can't  answer  for  anything. 

Tesman.     Hedda! 

Hedda.  Not  on  any  pretext  must  he  be  allowed  to 
come  here! 


HEDDA   GABLER  431 

Tesman.  Oh,  I  see  what  it  is.  You  have  never  really 
been  able  to  forget  him  altogether! 

Hedda.  I  don't  know  myself.  Only  get  him  out  of 
the  way.  I  will  not  have  my  thoughts  fixed  on  anything 
but — what  is  coming. 

Tesman.     What  is  coming! 

Hedda.     Yes. 

Tesman.     Oh,  Hedda — if  I  understand  you  aright. 

Hedda.     Yes,  you  do. 

Tesman.  Oh,  Hedda,  Hedda!  And  Aunt  Jane! 
Think  how  happy  Aunt  Jane  will  be. 

Hedda.     Ugh,  don't  be  so  ridiculous! 

Tesman.     Ridiculous  ? 

Hedda.  Yes,  isn't  it  ridiculous  and  absurd  that  the 
first  thing  you  do  is  to  cry  out  for — Aunt  Jane  ? — By- 
the-bye,  there  is  a  letter  from  her  here. 

Tesman.     For  me  ? 

Hedda.  Yes.  (Handing  it  to  him.)  It  came  early 
this  morning. 

Tesman  (opening  it) .     What  can  it  be  ? 

Hedda.     Perhaps  she  has  heard  something  about  him. 

Tesman  (runs  his  eye  through  it).  Oh,  Hedda — she 
says  that  Aunt  Rina  is  dying. 

Hedda.     Well,  we  were  prepared  for  that. 

Tesman.  She  says  that  if  I  want  to  see  her  again, 
I  must  make  haste.     I'll  run  in  to  them  at  once. 

Hedda  (suppressing  a  smile).     Run! 

Tesman  (takes  his  hat  and  throws  his  overcoat  over 
his  arm) .     I  do  hope  I  mayn't  come  too  late. 

Hedda.     Oh,  if  you  run 

(Berta  appears  at  the  hall  door.) 

Berta.  Judge  Brack  is  here,  and  wishes  to  know  if 
he  may  come  in. 

Tesman.    Judge  Brack!    No,  I  can't  possibly  see  him. 


432  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda.  But  I  can.  (To  Berta.)  Ask  Judge  Brack 
to  come  in. 

(Berta  opens  the  door  to  Judge  Brack,  and  goes 
out  herself.) 

Brack.  Oh,  are  you  starting  again  to  hunt  for  him — 
the  bird  of  ill  omen  ? 

Tesman.  No,  I  must  rush  off  to  my  aunts'.  The  in- 
valid one  is  lying  at  death's  door. 

Brack.     Dear  me,  is  she  indeed  ? 

Tesman.     And  did  you  find  any  trace  of  him  ? 

Brack.     No.     And  you  ? 

Tesman.     I  didn't  either. 

Brack.  I  didn't  think  you  would.  But  don't  let 
me  detain  you.     At  such  a  critical  moment 

Tesman.  Yes,  I  must  really  hurry — Good-bye! 
Good-bye!     (He  goes  out  by  the  hall  door.) 

Hedda.  Well,  you  seem  to  have  had  quite  a  lively 
night. 

Brack.  I  have  not  had  my  clothes  off  a  moment, 
Mrs.  Hedda. 

Hedda.     And  yet  you  have  heard  nothing. 

Brack.     Oh  yes,  I  have.     Practically  everything. 

Hedda.     But  you  said 

Brack.  Tesman  was  on  tenterhooks  to  get  away, 
you  see. 

Hedda.  Yes,  aren't  you  sorry  for  poor  Tesman  ? 
Just  think,  Aunt  Rina — !  Well,  where  did  you  get 
hold  of  Lbvborg  ? 

Brack.  I  didn't  get  hold  of  him  at  all.  But  I  heard 
that  he  was  being  well  taken  care  of. 

Hedda.     Where  ? 

Brack.     At  the  police  station. 

Hedda.     Ah — but  what  has  he  done? 


HEDDA  GABLER  43S 

Brack.  H'm — I  think  we  had  better  not  go  into  de- 
tails. 

Hedda.  Oh  yes.  Details  above  all.  They  are  what 
I  want  to  hear  about. 

Brack.  Well,  you  must  really  excuse  me  all  the  same, 
Mrs.  Hedda.     I  was  not  present,  you  know. 

Hedda.     You!     No,  I  know  that. 

Brack.  I  have  only  heard  that  he  fell  in  with  a  lot  of 
other  revellers. 

Hedda.     Not  any  of  yours  ? 

Brack.     Of  mine? 

Hedda.     Yes,  of  your  guests  then. 

Brack.  Oh,  can  you  think  that!  No,  they  always 
behave  themselves  out-of-doors.  They  go  home  to  bed 
like  good  boys. 

Hedda.     Yes,  yes.     We  well-behaved  people 

Brack.  No,  unfortunately  it  was  some  of  his  old 
acquaintances  he  came  across. 

Hedda.     Well,  and  then? 

Brack.  Then  the  usual  thing  happened.  They  paid 
a  visit  to  some — singing  girls,  I  think. 

Hedda.  Or  something  of  the  sort,  yes.  And  after- 
wards ? 

Brack.  An  orgie,  presumably.  Followed  by  the  cus- 
tomary free  fight  with  resultant  ejection.  Then  a  street 
row  outside.  Windows  smashed.  Police  called.  And 
so  to  the  lock-up. 

Hedda.  It  must  be  curious  to  be  present  at  such  a 
scene. 

Brack.     Would  you  like  to  be,  Mrs.  Hedda? 

Hedda.  Oh  yes,  once  in  a  way.  If  nobody  saw  one. 
And  nobody  heard  anything  of  it  afterwards. 

Brack.     No,  I  should  think  not. 


434  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hedda.  For  there  must  be  something  untameable 
among  all  this  coarseness  and  vulgarity — .  But  this  is 
a  thing  that  I  keep  for  your  ears  alone,  my  dear  Judge. 

Brack.  I  should  certainly  advise  you  to  do  so.  But 
what  annoys  me  beyond  measure  is  that  this  person  could 
be  so  inconsiderate  as  to  go  straight  from  my  party 
and 

Hedda.  Do  you  think  it  will  get  about  that  he  came 
from  your  house  ? 

Brack.  Yes,  of  course  it  will  come  out  at  the  police- 
court. 

Hedda.     Will  the  matter  come  into  court! 

Brack.  Yes — when  the  police  get  hold  of  an  affair — . 
But  I  had  a  suspicion  that  something  of  this  sort  was 
coming.  And  therefore,  Mrs.  Hedda,  I  will  give  you  a 
friendly  piece  of  advice.  After  this,  you  must  not  allow 
this  person  inHo  your  house. 

Hedda.     What  do  you  say! 

Brack.  Yes,  and  there  is  another  person  that  you 
ought  not  to  receive  either. 

Hedda.     I  can  see  that  you  mean  Mrs.  Elfsted. 

Brack.  Of  course.  Those  two  have  been  plotting 
together. 

Hedda.     Do  you  know  anything  definite! 

Brack.  No,  but  it  is  not  difficult  to  guess  a  thing  of 
that  sort.  She,  a  woman  who  as  a  rule  never  sets  foot 
in  town,  arrives  here  simultaneously  with  him.  It  was 
all  arranged  between  them,  Mrs.  Hedda. 

Hedda.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Brack.     Their  meeting  here  in  your  house. 

Hedda.     I  don't  believe  it.     You  are  mistaken. 

Brack.  Well,  wait  and  see  which  of  us  is  right.  I 
don't  believe  she  will  go  home  just  at  present. 

Hedda.     No,  that  she  will  not  do. 


HEDDA   GABLER  435 

Brack.  There,  you  see.  Yes,  of  course  I  am  right. 
You  are  to  serve  as  a  blind. 

Hedda.     A  blind! 

Brack.  Now,  of  course,  he  will  try  to  win  you  over. 
Just  watch  whether  he  doesn't  strike  the  melancholy  note. 
Whether  he  doesn't  begin  talking  of  bygone  days.  Of 
disappointed  hopes 

Hedda.  — of  what  might  have  been  so  beautiful — 
but  was  not  to  be.     Ah  yes,  one  has  heard  all  that. 

Brack.  Perhaps  that  was  the  line  that  was  taken 
yesterday,  when  you  were  sitting  here  with  the  album? 

Hedda.  But  now  you  are  getting  altogether  too  sus- 
picious, my  dear  Judge. 

Brack.  Well,  I  confess  I  am  on  my  guard  against  that 
gentleman.  It  would  be  terrible  to  me  to  think  that  an 
intruder  was  coming  into 

Hedda.     — into  the  triangle. 

Brack.  Yes,  precisely.  Don't  laugh  at  it.  It  would 
simply  mean  that  I  should  find  myself  homeless. 

Hedda.  Oh,  come,  I  am  sure. you  have  plenty  of 
other  comfortable  homes  about  town. 

Brack.  No,  unfortunately.  Not  now.  In  the  last 
six  months  I  have  lost  no  fewer  than  three.  And  those 
among  the  best. 

Hedda.  Oh — did  intruding  cocks  come  into  those 
baskets  too? 

Brack.     No,  but  other  intruders  arrived 

Hedda.     Of  what  kind  ? 

Brack.     Children. 

Hedda.  Indeed?  But  what  have  those  children  to 
do  with  you  ? 

Brack  (laughing).  They  have  nothing  at  all  to  do 
with  me.     That  is  why  I  call  them  intruders. 


436  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 


Hedda.     Then  I  don't  at  all  see- 


Brack.  But,  bless  me,  you  must  know  that  I  can't 
endure  children 

Hedda.     And  why  not? 

Brack.  Because  the  little  angels  occupy  the  whole 
attention  of  the  mistress  of  the  house.  Old  friends  are 
nothing  to  her  when  an  event  of  that  kind  takes  place. 

Hedda.     Egoist! 

Brack.  Happily  no  such  danger  is  threatened  here. 
(Laughing.)  Although — I  won't  deny  that — it  would  be 
worth  anything 

Hedda.     Worth  anything?     What? 

Brack.  To  see — a  certain  specialist  in  his  new  dig- 
nity. 

Hedda.  Do  you  think  that  would  make  him  so  su- 
premely ridiculous  ? 

Brack.  Well,  you  mustn't  be  offended,  Mrs.  Hedda — 
but  I  can't  deny 

Hedda.     I  won't  listen  to  you  any  more,  Judge 


Brack.  Ah — indeed!  Well,  put  that  gentleman  out 
of  your  thoughts;  for  I  assure  you  he  doesn't  care  a 
scrap  for  you. 

Hedda.     Only  for  her,  you  mean. 

Brack.  For  his  fellow-worker,  yes.  (Looking  at  his 
watch.)  But  now  I  must  be  getting  back.  Good-bye, 
Mrs.  Hedda.     (He  goes  towards  the  glass  door.) 

Hedda.     Are  you  going  through  the  garden  ? 

Brack.     Yes,  it's  a  short  cut  for  me. 

Hedda.     And  then  it  is  a  back  way,  too. 

Brack.  Quite  so.  I  have  no  objection  to  back  ways. 
At  times.     They  may  be  piquant  enough. 

Hedda.  When  there  is  ball  practice  going  on,  you 
mean. 


HEDDA   GABLER  437 

Brack  (in  the  doorway) .     Oh,  people  don't  shoot  their 

own  poultry,  you  know.     And  the  stork — is  inviolate 

Hedda.     — and  is  not  to  be  found  in  these  parts. 
Brack.     No,  no,  that's  true. 

(He  bows,  and  goes  out  by  the  glass  door.) 


Hedda.     You  and  she! 

Lovborg.  You  can  be  of  no  more  service  to  me, 
Thea! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  how  can  you  speak  so!  No 
more  service  to  you!  Am  I  not  to  help  you?  Now, 
most  of  all !     Are  we  not  to  work  together  ? 

Lovborg.  It  is  all  over.  I  shall  never  do  any  more 
work.     Least  of  all  with  you. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     But  what  can  have  come  between 


us 


Lovborg.  Let  that  be  as  it  may.  But  the  comrade- 
ship between  us  is  now  at  an  end. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  but  this  is  so  utterly  inconceiv- 
able.    What  am  I  to  do  with  my  life  ? 

Lovborg.  You  must  try' to  live  your  life  as  if  you  had 
never  known  me. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  But  you  know  I  cannot  do  that! 
How  can  you  think  it  possible! 

Lovborg.  Try  if  you  cannot,  Thea.  You  must  go 
home  again 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (with  a  shriek).  Ah — you  can  say 
that!     Go  home  again!     Leave  you! 

Lovborg.  It  will  be  best  for  you.  And  besides — 
there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Never  in  this  world  will  I  go  back 
there.  Where  you  are,  there  will  I  be  also.  Aad  what 
would  happen  to  you  then  ? 


438  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Lovborg.  I  think  you  can  see  what  will  happen  to 
me. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  but  I  must  be  able  to  give  you 
some  support.     I  could  before.     Up  there. 

Lovborg.  For  a  time,  yes.  But  it  wanted  nothing 
but  a  stormy  night  to  blow  all  that  we  had  built  up  into 
fragments. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Well,  that  cannot  be  helped. — But 
I  will  not  let  myself  be  driven  away  like  this.  You  have 
no  right  to  do  it. 

Lovborg.     No,  I  know  that. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Well,  and  therefore  I  will  not  put  up 
with  it!  I  will  not  submit  to  it  on  any  account!  Do  you 
hear,  Lovborg!  I  tell  you  that.  I  will  remain  here.  I 
will  be  with  ycju  when  the  book  appears. 

Hedda.     Ah,  the  book ! 

Lovborg.  My  book  and  Thea's,  Mrs.  Tesman;  for 
that  is  what  it  is. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes,  that  is  what  it  is.  You  have 
said  that  so  often.  And  in  my  inmost  self  I  feel  that  it. 
is  true.     I  have  my  share  in  its  existence. 

Lovborg.     You  have. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes,  and  that  is  why  I  have  a  right 
to  be  present  when  it  appears.  I  must  see  with  my  own 
eyes  how  respect  and  honour  are  showered  upon  you. 
Now  more  than  ever,  Lovborg.  And  the  happiness — 
the  happiness — oh,  I  must  share  it  with  you! 

Lovborg.     Thea — our  book  will  never  appear. 

Hedda.     Ah ! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Never  appear! 

Lovborg.     Can  never  appear. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Lovborg — what  have  you  done  with 
the  manuscript? 


HEDDA   GABLER  439 

Hedda  (breathlessly).     The  manuscript ! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Where  is  it? 

Lovborg.     Oh  Thea — don't  ask  me  about  it! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes,  yes,  I  will  know.  I  demand 
to  be  told  at  once. 

Lovborg.  The  manuscript — .  Well  then — I  have 
torn  the  manuscript  into  a  thousand  pieces. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Oh  no,  no ! 

Hedda  {involuntarily).     But  that's  not  true! 

Lovborg  (looks  at  her).     Not  true ! 

Hedda  (collecting  herself).  Oh  well,  of  course.  But 
it  sounded  so  incredible 

Lovborg.     It  is  true,  all  the  same,    Mrs.  Tesman. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Just  think,  Hedda — torn  his  own 
work  to  pieces. 

Lovborg.  Tore  it  into  a  thousand  pieces — and  scat- 
tered them  on  the  fiord — far  out.  There  there  is  cool 
sea-water  at  any  rate — let  them  drift  upon  it — drift  with 
the  current  and  the  wind.  And  then  presently  they  will 
sink — deeper  and  deeper — as  I  shall,  Thea. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  Lovborg,  Lovborg — this  is  ter- 
rible to  think  of. 

Lovborg.  Yes.  Therefore  you  must  go  away  in 
time. 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (without  listening  to  him).  Do  you 
know,  Lovborg,  that  to  my  dying  day  I  shall  think  of 
what  you  have  done  now  as  though  you  had  killed  a  little 
child. 

Lovborg.  Yes,  you  are  right,  Thea.  It  is  a  sort  of 
child-murder. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  How  could  you  then — !  Did  it  not 
belong  to  me  too  ? 

Hedda.     Ah , 


440  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Lovborg.  That  is  why  I  would  rather  part  from  you 
now.     After  this,  you  understand. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes,  oh  yes,  I  can  understand.  But 
it  seems  impossible  that  we  can  part  nevertheless !  Well 
well,  now  I  will  go,  Hedda. 

Hedda.     But  you  are  not  going  away  from  town  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  see  nothing 
but  darkness  before  me. 

(She  goes  out  by  the  hall  door.) 

Hedda.  So  you  are  not  going  to  see  her  home,  Mr. 
Lovborg  ? 

Lovborg.  I?  Through  the  streets?  In  broad  day- 
light ? 

Hedda.  No,  no — .  Though,  after  all — !  Is  it  then 
so  utterly  irretrievable — this  that  happened  last  night? 

Lovborg.  It  will  not  end  with  last  night — I  know 
that  perfectly  well — it  is  all  over  with  me  now. 

Hedda.     But  can  you  never  learn  to  control  yourself  ? 

Lovborg.  No — that  is  just  what  I  cannot  do.  And 
that  is  the  desperate  part  of  it.  It  is  not  with  me  as 
with  so  many  others.  They  have  it  in  their  power  to 
pull  themselves  up,  when  they  find  it  running  away  with 
them.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  learn  that.  I  have 
brought  myself  down  to  be  a  bondman.  Lost  the  power 
over  my  own  will. 

Hedda.  Yes,  yes.  But  how  could  you  treat  poor 
Thea  so  heartlessly  ? 

Lovborg.      Oh,  don't  say  that  it  was  heartless! 

Hedda.  To  go  and  destroy  what  has  filled  her  whole 
soul  day  and  night — for  months  and  years.  You  do  not 
call  that  heartless! 

Lovborg.     To  you  I  can  tell  it,  Hedda 

Hedda.     What  can  you  tell  ? 


HEDDA   GABLER  441 

Lovborg.  First  promise  me — give  me  your  word — 
that  what  I  now  confide  to  you  neither  she  nor  any  one 
else  shall  ever  know. 


Lovborg.     Beautifully  ? 

Hedda.     For  once  in  a  way.     Good-bye,  you  must  go 
now.     And  do  not  come  here  any  more. 

Lovborg.    Good-bye,  Mrs.  Tesman.   And  give  George 
Tesman  my  love. 

Hedda.     No,  wait.     I  must  give  you  a  memento  to 
take  with  you. 

(She  goes  to  the  writing-table,  opens  the  drawer  and 
returns  to  Lovborg  with  one  of  the  pistols.) 
Lovborg.     This  ?     Is  this  the  memento  ? 
Hedda.     Do  you  remember — you  asked  me  for  it  once 
before. 

Lovborg.     You  would  not  give  it  me  then. 
Hedda.     Take  it.     Now  it  is  yours. 
Lovborg  (puts  the  pistol  in  his  breast  pocket) .     Thanks. 
Hedda.     And  beautifully — promise  me  that. 
Lovborg.     Good-bye — Hedda  Gabler. 

(He  goes  out  by  the  hall  door.) 

(Hedda  listens  for  a  moment.     Then  she  goes  up  to 

the  writing-table,  takes  out  Lovborg's  manuscript, 

goes  with  it  and  seats  herself  in  the  armchair  beside 

the  stove,  opens  the  packet  and  sorts  the  blue  and 

white  quires  separately,  lays  the  white  quires  in 

the  wrapper  again  and  keeps  the  blue  ones  in  her 

lap.) 

Hedda  (opens  the  stove  door;  presently  she  throws  one 

of  the  blue  quires  into  the  fire  and  whispers  to  herself) . 

Now  I  am  burning  your  child,  Thea!     (Throwing  one 


442  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

or  two  more  quires  into  the  stove.)  Your  child  and  Eilert 
Lovborg's.  {Throws  ihc  rest  in.)  I  am  burning — I  am 
burning  your  child. 


FOURTH  ACT 


The  same  room  at  the  Tesmans'.  It  is  evening.  In  the 
drawing-room  a  lighted  lamp  stands  on  the  table  in  the 
corner  to  the  right.  The  hanging  lamp  in  the  inner 
room  is  also  lighted. 

(Hedda  walks  to  and  fro  in  the  inner  room  and  disap- 
pears for  a  moment  to  the  left.  She  is  heard  to  strike 
a  few  chords  on  the  piano.  Presently  she  comes  in 
sight  again,  and  enters  the  drawing-room.) 

(Berta  enters  from  the  right,  through  the  inner  room,  with 
a  lighted  lamp,  which  she  places  on  the  writing-table. 
Her  eyes  are  red  with  tveeping,  and  she  has  black 
ribbons  in  lier  cap.  She  goes  quietly  and  circum- 
spectly out  to  the  right.) 

(A  little  while  afterwards,  Miss  Tesman,  in  mourning, 
with  a  bonnet  and  veil  on,  comes  in  from  the  hall.) 

Miss  Tesman.  Yes,  Hedda — now  my  poor  sister 
has  at  last  found  peace. 

Hedda  (pressing  her  hand).  I  have  heard  the  news 
already.     Tesman  sent  me  a  card. 

Miss  Tesman.  He  said  he  would  do  so.  But  I 
thought  nevertheless  I  ought  myself  to  bring  the  tidings. 

Hedda.  That  was  very  kind  of  you.  She  died  quite 
peacefully,  did  she  not  ? 

Miss  Tesman.  Oh,  she  went  so  calmly,  so  beautifully. 
And  then  she  had  the  great  happiness  of  seeing  George 
once  more — and  bidding  him  good-bye.  Has  he  not 
come  home  vet? 


HEDDA   GABLER  443 

Hedda.  No;  he  wrote  that  he  might  be  detained. 
But  won't  you  sit  down  ? 

Miss  Tesman.  No,  thank  you.  I  have  so  much  to 
do.  I  must  prepare  my  dear  one  for  her  rest  as  well  as  I 
can. 

(George  Tesman  enters  by  the  hall  door.) 

Hedda.     How  long  you  have  been. 

Tesman.     You  here,  Aunt  Julia! 

Miss  Tesman.  I  was  just  going.  Well,  have  you 
seen  to  what  you  promised  ? 

Tesman.  No,  I  clean  forgot  it.  My  brain  is  in  a 
whirl.     I  can't  keep  my  thoughts  together. 

Miss  Tesman.  Why,  you  mustn't  take  it  so  much 
to  heart. 

Tesman.     Not  take  it  to  heart! 

Miss  Tesman.  You  ought  to  have  expected  it.  And 
was  it  not  best  for  her  to  be  at  rest? 

Tesman.     Oh  yes!     Of  course 

Miss  Tesman.  And  now  you  have  other  things  to 
think  of. 

Tesman.     Yes,  yes,  so  I  have 

Miss  Tesman.  That  is  the  way  of  the  world,  Hedda. 
My  home  is  the  house  of  death,  and  this — this  is  the  house 
of  life. 

Hedda.     Life!     Here! 

Miss  Tesman.  At  home  we  shall  be  sewing  a  shroud; 
and  here  there  will  soon  be  sewing  too,  I  suppose — but 
of  another  sort,  thank  God! 

Hedda.     Oh,  has  he  gone  and  told  her! 

Miss  Tesman.  Yes,  therefore  we  must  rejoice.  For 
one  thing  as  well  as  the  other. 

Hedda.     You  will  feel  lonely  now. 

Miss  Tesman.  That  will  not  last  long.  I  shall  find 
an  occupant  for  poor  Rina's  little  room. 


444  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Tesman.     Who  do  you  think  will  take  it  ? 

Miss  Tesman.  Oh,  there's  always  some  invalid  body 
in  want  of  nursing— unfortunately. 

Hedda.  Would  you  really  take  such  a  burden  upon 
you  again  ? 

Miss  Tesman.  A  burden!  Heaven  forgive  you, 
child — it  has  been  no  burden  to  me. 

Hedda.  Well,  but  if  you  had  a  stranger  on  your 
hands. 

Miss  Tesman.  Oh,  one  soon  makes  friends  with  the 
sick;  and  it's  such  an  absolute  necessity  for  me  to  have 
some  one  to  live  for.  Well,  heaven  be  praised,  there  will 
soon  be  something  in  this  house,  too,  to  keep  me  busy. 

Hedda. >    Oh,  don't  trouble  about  that. 

Tesman.     Oh  yes,  how  nice  everything  might  be 

Hedda.     If ? 

Tesman.     Oh,  nothing.     It  will  all  come  rijrht. 

Miss  Tesman.  Yes,  yes,  I  daresay  you  two  have  a 
great  deal  to  say  to  each  other.  Good-bye.  I  must  go 
home  to  Rina. 

{There  are  leave-takings.     Miss  Tesman  goes.) 

Hedda.  I  can't  make  it  out.  It  seems  as  though  this 
affected  you  more  than  it  does  her. 

Tesman.  Oh,  it  is  not  that.  It's  Eilert  Lovborg  I 
am  so  uneasy  about. 

Hedda.     Is  there  anything  new  about  him? 

Tesman.     I  met  Mrs.  Elfsted  this  afternoon. 

Hedda.     Yes! 

Tesman.  And  she  told  me  that  he  had  been  here  early 
this  morning. 

Hedda.     Yes,  directly  after  you  had  gone. 

Tesman.     He  wanted  to  see  me,  I  suppose. 

Hedda.     No,  it  was  Mrs.  Elfsted  he  asked  for. 

Tesman.  Did  he  not  inquire  about  the  manuscript  too  r 


HEDDA   GABLER  445 

Hedda.  No,  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  you  had 
found  it. 

Tesman.  I  can't  make  it  out.  I  hear  he  said  that  he 
had  torn  it  to  pieces. 

Hedda.     Yes,  so  he  told  us. 

Tesman.     But  did  you  not  tell  him  that  I  had  found 
it  ?     That  you  were  keeping  it  ? 

Hedda.     No. 

Tesman.  But,  good  heavens — !  Just  think  of  the 
desperate  state  he  must  have  been  in. 

Hedda.     Desperate!     What  makes  you  think  that? 

Tesman.  Of  course  it  was  shame  and  humiliation  that 
made  him  say  that.     That  he  had  wilfully  destroyed  it. 

Hedda.     Yes,  perhaps  so. 

Tesman.  He  naturally  did  not  want  to  confess  that 
he  had  been  in  such  a  state.  That  he  did  not  know  what 
he  had  done  with  his  own  belongings. 

Hedda.  And  you  did  not  tell  her  that  you  had  the 
packet  ? 

Tesman.     No,  I  was  ashamed  on  his  account. 

Hedda.     Be  sure  you  don't  say  anything. 

Tesman.  Well,  but  it  must  come  out  all  the  same. 
He  must  have  it  back,  the  sooner  the  better.  Where  is 
it? 

Hedda.     I  have  not  got  it. 

Tesman.  Have  not  got  it?  What  in  the  world  do 
you  mean  ?     What  have  you  done  with  it  ? 

Hedda.     I  have  burnt  it. 

Tesman.     Burnt!     Burnt  his  manuscript. 

Hedda.  Don't  scream  so.  The  servant  might  hear 
you. 

Tesman.  Burnt!  Why,  good  God — !  No,  no,  no, 
it's  impossible. 

Hedda.     It  is  so,  nevertheless. 


446  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Tesman.  Do  you  know  what  you  have  done  ?  It's 
unlawful  appropriation  of  lost  property.  Just  ask 
Judge  Brack,  and  he'll  tell  you  what  it  is! 

Hedda.  Don't  speak  of  it  to  any  one.  Neither  to 
Judge  Brack  nor  to  any  one  else. 

Tesman.  But  your  reason,  Hedda!  I  must  know 
your  reason!  For  I  feel  that  you  are  concealing  some- 
thing from  me.     Answer  me. 

Hedda.     Yes.     I  did  it  for  your  sake. 

Tesman.     For  mine! 

Hedda.  When  you  came  home  and  spoke  so  highly 
of  what  he  had  read  to  you. 

Tesman.     Yes  yes — what  then  ? 

Hedda.  I  could  not  bear  the  idea  that  he  should 
throw  you  into  the  shade. 

Tesman.     Hedda!     Is  this  true? 

Hedda.  You  must  remember  that — at  this  time — . 
I  am  not  like  my  usual  self 

Tesman.    Oh,  great  heavens — !   It  was  for  love  of  me! 

Hedda.     Don't  shout  so.     The  servant  might  hear. 

Tesman.     Well,  let  her.     I'll  tell  Berta  myself. 

Hedda.     Oh,  it  will  be  the  end  of  me,  all  this. 

Tesman.     What  will  ? 

Hedda.     All  this — absurdity. 

Tesman.  Absurdity.  Well  well,  then.  Perhaps  it 
won't  do  to  say  anything  to  Berta. 

Hedda.     Oh — why  not? 

Tesman.  No,  no,  I  see  that.  But  I  must  certainly 
tell  Aunt  Julia.     Oh,  she  will  be  so  happy,  so  happy 

Hedda.  When  she  hears  that  I  have  burnt  Eilert 
Lovborg's  manuscript? 

Tesman.  No,  by-the-bye — that  affair  of  the  burning 
— nobody  must  know  about  that.  But  that  your  love 
for  me  has  awakened  in  this  way 


HEDDA   GABLER  447 

Hedda.     Say  nothing  about  that. 

Tesman.  Oh  yes — Aunt  Julia  must  share  in  that. 
Oh,  I  am  so  happy — so  proud 

Hedda.     Well,  be  so.     But  keep  it  to  yourself. 

Tesman.  I  cannot,  Hedda.  That  would  take  away 
half  the  pleasure  of  it.  I  wonder,  now,  whether  this  sort 
of  awakening  is  usual  in  young  wives  ? 

Hedda.  You  had  better  ask  Aunt  Julia  that  question 
too. 

Tesman.  I  will,  some  time  or  other.  For  she  knows 
all  about  such  things. 

(Mrs.  Elfsted,  with  her  cloak  on,  enters  by  the 
hall  door.     She  appears  to  be  much  agitated.) 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  dear  Hedda,  forgive  my  coming 
again - 


Hedda.     What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Thea  ? 

Tesman.     Something  about  Eilert  Lovborg  again  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  I  am  so  dreadfully  afraid  some 
misfortune  has  happened  to  him 

Hedda.     Ah — do  you  think  so? 

Tesman.  But,  good  Lord — what  makes  you  think 
so,  Mrs.  Elfsted? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  I  heard  them  talking  of  him  at  my 
boarding-house,  just  as  I  came  in 

Tesman.     Well  ?     What  did  they  say  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  I  couldn't  make  out  anything 
clearly.  Either  they  knew  nothing  definite,  or  else — . 
They  stopped  talking  when  they  saw  me. 

Tesman.     You  surely  misunderstood  them 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  No,  no;  I  am  sure  it  was  of  him  they 
were  talking.  And  I  heard  something  about  the  hospi- 
tal  

Tesman.     About  the  hospital! 

Hedda.     Surely  that  cannot  be. 


448  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  I  was  in  such  mortal  terror.  And 
then — just  think 

Tesman.     Yes  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  I  went  to  his  lodgings  and  asked  for 
him 

Hedda.  How  could  you  make  up  your  mind  to  do 
such  a  thing! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Oh,  because  I  couldn't  endure  it. 

Tesman.     But  you  didn't  find  him  ? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  No.  And  the  people  knew  nothing 
about  him.  He  hadn't  been  home  since  yesterday  after- 
noon, they  said.  Oh,  I  am  sure  something  has  happened 
to  him! 

Tesman.  Hedda — how  would  it  be  if  I  were  to  go 
and  get  Brack 

Hedda.     No,  not  in  this  affair. 

(Judge  Brack,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  enters  by 
the  hall  door,  which  Berta  opens,  and  closes  be- 
hind him.     He  looks  grave.) 

Tesman.     Oh,  is  that  you,  my  dear  Judge  ? 

Brack.     Yes.     It  was  imperative  I  should  see  you. 

Tesman.  I  can  see  you  have  heard  about  Aunt 
Rina. 

Brack.     Yes,  that  among  other  things. 

Tesman.     Isn't  it  sad — eh  ? 

Brack.     Oh,  that  depends  on  how  you  look  at  it. 

Tesman.     Has  anything  else  happened  ? 

Brack.     Yes. 

Mrs.  Elfsted  (in  suspense).  Anything  sad,  Judge 
Brack  ? 

Brack.  That,  too  depends  on  how  you  look  at  it, 
Mrs.  Elfsted. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh!  it  is  something  about  Eilert 
Lovborg  ? 


HEDDA   GABLER  449 

Brack.  What  makes  you  think  that  ?  Have  you  al- 
ready heard  something? 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     No,  no,  but 

Tesman.     Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  tell  us! 

Brack.  Eilert  Lovborg  has  been  taken  to  the  hospital. 
He  is  lying  at  the  point  of  death. 

Tesman.     At  the  point  of  death!     In  the  hospital. 

Hedda.     Ah ! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Oh  God!   oh  God 

Hedda  (whispers).     Thea — be  careful. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  I  must  go  to  him!  I  must  see  him 
alive. 

Brack.     It  is  useless.     No  one  will  be  admitted. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  at  least  tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened to  him? 

Tesman.  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  he  has  him- 
self—! 

Hedda.     Yes,  I  am  sure  he  has. 

Tesman.     Hedda,  how  can  you ! 

Brack.  Unfortunately  you  have  guessed  quite  cor- 
rectly, Mrs.  Tesman. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Oh,  how  horrible! 

Tesman.     Himself,  then ! 

Hedda.     Shot  himself! 

Brack.     Rightly  guessed  again. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     When  did  it  happen? 

Brack.     This  afternoon — between  three  and  four. 

Tesman.     And  where  did  he  do  it? 

Brack.    Where  ?    Well — I  suppose  at  his  lodgings ■ 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  No,  that  is  not  so;  for  I  was  there 
between  seven  and  eight. 

Brack.  Well  then,  somewhere  else.  I  don't  know 
precisely.  I  only  know  that  he  was  found — .  He  had 
shot  himself — in  the  breast. 


450  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Oh,  how  awful! 

Hedda.     Was  it  in  the  breast ? 

Brack.     Yes. 

Hedda.     Not  in  the  temple? 

Brack.     No,  it  was  in  the  breast. 

Hedda.     Well,  well,  the  breast  is  a  good  place,  too. 

Brack.     How  do  you  mean  ? 

Hedda.     Oh,  nothing — nothing. 

Tesman.     And  the  wound  is  dangerous  ? 

Brack.     Absolutely  mortal.     The  end  has  probably 
come  by  this  time. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Yes,  yes,  I  feel  it!     And  then  not  to 
see  him. 

Tesman.     How  have  you  learnt  this  ? 

Brack.     Through  one  of  the  police.     A  man  I  had 
some  business  with 

Hedda.     At  last  a  deed  worth  doing! 

Tesman.     Hedda — what  are  you  saying? 

Hedda.     I  say  there  is  beauty  in  this! 

Brack.     H'm — Mrs.  Tesman 

Mrs.     Elfsted.     Beauty!     Oh,     Hedda — how     can 
you- 


Tesman.     But,  great  heaven — Hedda 

Hedda.  He  has  passed  judgment  on  himself,  and 
has  had  the  courage  to  do — the  one  right  thing. 

Tesman.  And  you  can  speak  thus  of  something  so 
reprehensible!     Fancy — a  suicide 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh  yes,  yes.  But  do  not  condemn 
him.     He  did  it  in  delirium 

Hedda.  No,  no,  that  he  did  not.  I  am  certain  of 
that. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes,  he  did.  In  delirium.  Just  as 
when  he  tore  up  our  manuscript. 

Brack.     The  manuscript?     Has  he  torn  that  up? 


HEDDA   GABLER  451 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Yes,  last  night. 

Tesman  {softly).     Oh,  Hedda — Hedda. 

Brack.     H'm — very  extraordinary. 

Tesman.  To  think  of  his  going  out  of  the  world 
without  leaving  behind  him  anything  that  would  have 
immortalised  his  memory. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Oh,  but  think,  if  it  could  be  put  to- 
gether again! 

Tesman.  Yes,  if  it  only  could.  I  don't  know  what  I 
would  not  give,  if  it  only  could 

Mrs.  Elfsted,     Perhaps  it-can,  Mr.  Tesman. 

Tesman.     How! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Look  here.  I  have  kept  all  the  loose 
notes  he  used  to  dictate  to  me  from. 

Hedda.     Ah ! 

Tesman.     You  have  them! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Yes,  here.  I  brought  them  with  me. 
I  was  going  to  ask  you  or  Hedda  to  keep  them. 

Tesman.     Oh,  let  me  see.     Let  me  see! 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  But  they  are  in  such  disorder — so 
mixed  up. 

Tesman.  If  we  could  make  something  out  of  them. 
Perhaps  if  we  two  put  our  heads  together. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Yes,  let  us  try. 

Tesman.  We  will  manage  it.  I  will  dedicate  my 
life  to  this. 

Hedda.     You  ?     Your  life  ? 

Tesman.  Yes,  or  all  the  time  I  can  spare.  My  own 
collections  must  wait  in  the  meantime.  Hedda — you 
understand.     I  owe  this  to  my  friend. 

Hedda.     Perhaps. 

Tesman.  And  so,  my  dear  Mrs.  Elfsted,  we  will  give 
our  whole  minds  to  it.  We  will  control  our  grief.  Will 
you  promise  me  that? 


452  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     I  will  try  to  do  that. 

Tesman.  Come  here.  I  can't  rest  until  we  have 
looked  through  them.  A  thing  of  this  sort — arranging 
other  people's  papers — is  just  the  work  for  me.  Where 
shall  we  sit — here?  No,  in  there,  in  the  back  room. 
Excuse  me — my  dear  Judge.  Come  along,  Mrs.  Elf- 
sted. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Oh,  if  only  it  were  possible. 

(Tesman  and  Mrs.  Elfsted  go  into  the  back  room,, 
sit  at  the  table  under  the  hanging  lamp,  and  are 
soon  deep  in  the  papers.  Hedda  crosses  to  the 
stove  and  sits  in  the  armchair.  Presently  Brack 
goes  up  to  her.) 

Hedda.     Oh,  what  a  sense  of  freedom  this  gives  one. 

Brack.     Freedom  ? 

Hedda.  Yes,  to  know  that  a  deed  is  still  possible  in 
this  world — a  deed  of  beauty. 

Brack.     H'm — my  dear  Mrs.  Hedda 

Hedda.  Oh,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  For 
you  are  a  kind  of  specialist  too,  like — you  know.  You 
are  neither  able  nor  willing  to  see  what  there  is  in  this 
deed  of  Eilert  Lovborg's. 

Brack.  Mrs.  Hedda — this  man  was  more  to  you  than 
perhaps  you  are  willing  to  admit — .     Is  that  not  so? 

Hedda.  I  don't  answer  that.  But  now  I  can  see 
him  as  he  used  to  be.  And  I  may  say  this  to  you.  To 
me  his  reckless  life  was  not  aberration.  There  was 
spirit  in  it.  Defiance  of  public  opinion.  It  was  not 
expiation  of  faults  that  he  intended.  He  ended  his  life 
in  freedom  and  courage. 

Brack.  I  am  sorry,  Mrs.  Hedda,  but  I  fear  I  must 
dispel  an  amiable  illusion 

Hedda.     Illusion  ? 

Brack.     Which  could  not  have  lasted  long  in  any  case. 


HEDDA   GABLER 


453 


Hedda.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Brack.     The  thing  did  not  happen  exactly  as  I  told 
it 

Hedda.     How  then  ? 

Brack.     Eilert  Lovborg  did  not  shoot  himself! 

Hedda.     Is  he  not  shot  ? 

Brack.     Yes.     But  it  is  not  a  case  of  suicide. 

Hedda.     Now  you  are  belying  him! 

Brack.     And  it  was  not  at  his  lodgings 

Hedda.     That  makes  no  difference. 

Brack.  Eilert  Lovborg  died  of  an  accidental  shot 
in  the  same  low  tavern  where  he  made  a  disturbance  last 
night. 

Hedda.  Impossible!  He  cannot  have  been  there 
again  to-day. 

Brack.  He  was  there.  He  went  to  look  for  some- 
thing. Talked  wildly.  Accused  them  of  having  stolen 
a  child  from  him 

Hedda.     Ah ! 

Brack.  I  thought  he  meant  his  manuscript;  but 
he  destroyed  that  himself,  didn't  he?  So  I  suppose  it 
must  have  been  his  pocket-book. — Then  there  was  a 
fight.  He  was  thrown  downstairs.  Had  a  loaded  pistol 
in  his  pocket.  It  goes  off,  and  the  ball  lodges — not  in 
the  breast,  but  in  the  bowels. 

Hedda.  Oh,  what  curse  it  is  that  makes  everything 
I  touch  turn  ludicrous  and  mean? 

Brack.     There  is  another  disagreeable  feature  in  the 
Hedda. 
And  what  is  that? 

The  pistol  he  carried 

Well— what  of  it 


affair,  Mrs. 
Hedda. 
Brack. 
Hedda. 
Brack. 
Hedda. 


He  must  have  stolen  it 

Stolen  it!     That  is  not  true! 


454  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Bback.     No  other  explanation  is  possible — hush 

(Tesman  and  Mrs.  Elfsted  have  risen  from  the 
table  in  the  back  room,  and  come  into  the  drawing- 
room.) 
Tesman  (with  the  papers  in  both  his  hands).     Impos- 
sible to  see  under  that  lamp.     Do  you  mind  our  sitting 
at  your  writing-table,  Hedda? 

Hedda.     If  you  like.    No,  wait.     Let  me  clear  it  first. 
Tesman.     Oh,  there  is  plenty  of  room. 
Hedda.     No,  no,  let  me  clear  it.     I  will  take  these 
things  in  and  put  them  on  the  piano.     There. 

(She  takes  a  case  out  of  the  shelf,  places  sheet  music 
over  it  and  carries  it  into  the  inner  room,  to  the 
left.     Tesman  lays  the  papers  on  the  writing-table, 
and  moves  the  lamp  there  from  the  corner  table. 
He  and  Mrs.  Elfsted  sit  down  and  become  en- 
grossed in  the  papers.     Hedda  returns.) 
Hedda.     Well,  are  you  getting  on  ? 
Tesman.     It  will  be  terribly  hard  to  put  in  order. 
(Hedda  goes  over  to  the  stove,  and  seats  herself  in  the 
armchair.     Brack  stands  beside  her.) 
Hedda  (whispers).     What  did  you  say  about  the  pis- 
tol? 

Brack.     That  he  must  have  stolen  it. 
Hedda.     Why  do  you  think  so? 
Brack.     Eilert  Lovborg  was  here  this  morning. 
Hedda.     Yes. 

Brack.     Were  you  alone  with  him  ? 
Hedda.     Part  of  the  time. 

Brack.     Were  you  out  of  the  room  whilst  he  was 
here? 

Hedda.     No. 

Brack.     Try  to  recollect.     Were  you  not  out  of  the 
room  a  moment? 


HEDDA  GABLER 


455 


Yes — perhaps  just  a  moment. 
And  where  was  your  pistol-case  during  that 

It  stood  there  on  the  shelf  of  the  writing- 


Hedda 

Brack. 
time  ? 

Hedda 
table. 

Brack.  Have  you  looked  since,  to  see  whether  both 

the  pistols  are  there? 

Hedda.  No. 

Brack.  Well,  you  need  not.  I  saw  the  one  found  in 
his  pocket,  and  I  knew  it  at  once. 

Hedda.  Have  you  it  with  you  ? 

Brack.  No;   the  police  have  it. 

Hedda.  What  will  the  police  do  with  it? 

Brack.  Search  till  they  find  the  owner. 

Hedda.  Do  you  think  they  will  succeed  ? 

Brack.  Not  so  long  as  I  say  nothing. 

Hedda.  And  if  you  do  not  say  nothing  ? 

Brack.  Well — Mrs.  Hedda — then  comes  the  scandal. 

Hedda.  The  scandal! 

Brack.  The  scandal,  of  which  you  are  in  such  mortal 
terror.  You  will  be  brought  before  the  court.  Will 
have  to  give  evidence.     Was  it  stolen  ?     Or  did  you  give 

it  to  him  ?  And  what  conclusions  will  people  draw  from 
that? 

Hedda.  That  is  true.     I  did  not  think  of  that. 

Brack.  Well,  fortunately,  there  is  no  danger,  so  long 
as  I  say  nothing. 

Hedda.  So  I  am  in  your  power. 

Brack.  I  shall  not  abuse  my  advantage,  Hedda. 

Hedda.  I  am  in  your  power  none  the  less.  A  slave! 
a  slave  then!     Oh,  that  intolerable  thought.     I  cannot 

endure  it!  Never!     (Rises.)     Well,  are  you  getting  on, 
Tesman  ? 


456  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Tesman.  Heaven  knows.  It  will  be  the  work  of 
months. 

Hedda  (passes  her  hands  softly  through  Mrs.  Elf- 
sted's  hair.)  Doesn't  it  seem  strange  to  you,  Thea? 
Here  are  you  sitting  with  Tesman,  just  as  you  used  to 
sit  with  Eilert  Ldvborg. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.  Ah  yes,  if  I  could  only  inspire  your 
husband  in  the  same  way. 

Hedda.     I  am  sure  you  can. 

Tesman.  Yes,  I  really  think  I  begin  to  feel  something 
of  the  sort.     But  won't  you  go  and  sit  with  Brack  again  ? 

Hedda.     Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  to  help  you  two  ? 

Tesman.  Nothing  in  the  world.  You  will  have  to 
keep  Hedda  company,  my  dear  Brack. 

Brack.     With  great  pleasure. 

Hedda.  Thanks.  But  now  I  am  going  to  lie  down 
on  the  sofa. 

Tesman.     Yes,  do. 

(Hedda  goes  into  the  back  room  and  draws  the  cur- 
tains. Tliere  is  a  pause.  Suddenly  Hedda  is 
heard  playing  a  wild  dance  on  the  piano.) 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Oh — what  is  that? 

Tesman  {goes  to  the  curtains).  But,  Hedda  dear — 
don't  play  dance-music.     Just  think  of  Aunt  Rina 

Hedda  (in  the  inner  room).  And  Aunt  Julia.  Yes, 
you're  right.     But  after  this,  I  will  be  quiet. 

Tesman.  It's  not  good  for  her  to  see  us  at  this  dis- 
tressing work.  You  shall  take  the  empty  room  at  Aunt 
Julia's,  Mrs.  Elfsted,  and  then  I  will  come  in  the  even- 
ings and  we  can  work  there. 

Mrs.  Elfsted.     Yes,  let  us  do  that. 

Hedda  (calls  from  the  inner  room).  I  hear  what  you 
are  saying,  Tesman.  But  how  am  I  to  get  through  the 
evenings  ? 


HEDDA   GABLER  457 

Tesman  (at  the  writing-table) .  Oh,  I  daresay  Judge 
Brack  will  be  so  kind  as  to  look  in  now  and  then. 

Brack  (calls  loudly).  Every  blessed  evening,  with  all 
the  pleasure  in  life,  Mrs.  Hedda.  We  shall  get  on  cap- 
itally together,  we  two. 

Hedda  (is  heard  to  say).  Thanks  for  your  kindness, 
Judge. 

(A  shot  is  heard  in  the  inner  room.  Tesman,  Mrs. 
Elfsted  and  Brack  leap  to  their  feet.  Tesman 
throws  back  the  curtains.  Hedda  lies  on  the  sofa, 
lifeless.  Screams  and  cries.  Berta  appears  from 
the  right  in  the  inner  room.) 
Tesman  (shrieks).  Shot  herself!  Shot  herself  in  the 
temple! 

Brack  (half-fainting  in  the  armchair  by  the  stove), 
Good  God! — people  don't  do  such  things! 


THE  MASTER  BUILDER 

A   PLAY   IN   THREE   ACTS 

BY 

HENRIK  IBSEN 
1803 


FROM  THE  FIRST  ACT 

Solness.  Well  then.  I  daresay  you  know  that  I 
took  Knut  Brovik  and  his  son  into  my  employment. 
About  seven  or  eight  years  ago.  When  the  old  man's 
business  had  gone  to  the  dogs. 

Dr.  Herdal.     Yes,  so  I  have  understood. 

Solness.  They  are  really  clever  fellows,  these  two. 
That  is,  when  they  are  not  working  on  their  own  account. 
But  then,  a  couple  of  years  ago  or  more,  the  son  took  it 
into  his  head  to  get  engaged,  and  the  next  thing,  of  course, 
was  that  he  wanted  to  begin  to  build  on  his  own  account. 
That  is  always  the  way  with  these  young  people. 

Dr.  Herdal  (laughing) .  Yes,  they  have  a  bad  habit 
of  wanting  to  marry. 

Solness.  Just  so.  Of  course  that  did  not  suit  my 
plans.  H'm — for  I  needed  them  for  calculating  bearing- 
strains  and  cubic  contents — and  all  that  sort  of  devilry, 
you  know. 

Dr.  Herdal.     Oh  yes,  no  doubt  that's  indispensable. 

Solness.  Yes,  it  is.  But  Alfred  was  absolutely  bent 
on  setting  to  work  for  himself.  No  matter  what  increase 
of  salary  I  offered  him,  it  was  no  use. 

Dr.  Herdal.  Oh  no,  when  young  fellows  get  those 
ideas  into  their  heads 

Solness.  But  one  day  this  girl  came  to  see  them  on 
some  errand  or  other.  And  when  I  saw  how  utterly  in- 
fatuated they  were  with  each  other,  the  thought  occurred 
to  me:  if  I  could  only  get  her  into  my  employment,  then 
perhaps  he  would  stay  too. 

461 


462  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Dr.  Herdal.     That  was  not  at  all  a  bad  idea. 

Solness.  Yes,  but  I  did  not  say  a  word  to  her  on 
that  subject.  Only  talked  to  her  a  little,  in  a  friendly 
way,  about  one  thing  and  another.  And  she  did  not 
know  me  then.     Nor  I  her  either 

Dr.  Herdal.     Well  ? 

Solness.  Well  then,  the  next  day,  pretty  late  in  the 
evening,  when  the  other  two  had  gone  home,  she  came 
here  again,  and  began  to  talk  as  if  I  had  made  an  ar- 
rangement with  her.  About  the  very  thing  I  had  fixed 
my  mind  on,  but  hadn't  said  a  single  word  about. 

Dr.  Herdal.     That  was  most  extraordinary. 

Solness.  Yes,  was  it  not  ?  She  wanted  to  know  what 
she  would  have  to  do — whether  she  could  begin  the  next 
day — and  so  forth. 

Dr.  Herdal.  Don't  you  think  she  did  it  in  order  to 
be  with  her  sweetheart? 

Solness.  That  was  what  occurred  to  me  at  first. 
But  no,  that  was  not  it.  She  seemed  to  drift  quite  away 
from  him,  when  she  came  here  to  me. 

Dr.  Herdal.     She  drifted  over  to  you,  then  ? 

Solness.  Yes,  entirely.  Cannot  take  her  eyes  off 
me.  Feels  it,  when  I  look  at  her.  Trembles  and  shakes 
the  moment  I  come  near  her.  What  do  you  think  of 
that? 

Dr.  Herdal.     H'm — that's  not  very  hard  to  explain. 

Solness.  Well,  but  what  about  the  other  thing  ? 
That  she  believed  I  had  said  to  her  what  I  had  only 
wished  and  willed — silently? 

Dr.  Herdal.     Yes,  that  is  most  extraordinary. 

Solness.     Can  you  explain  that,  Doctor? 

Dr.  Herdal.     No,  I  won't  undertake  to  do  that. 

Solness.  I  felt  sure  you  would  not;  and  so  I  have 
never  cared  to  talk  about  it  till  now.     But  it's  a  cursed 


THE   MASTER   BUILDER  463 

nuisance  to  me  in  the  long  run,  you  understand.  Here 
have  I  got  to  go  on  day  after  day  pretending — .  But  I 
cannot  do  anything  else.  For  if  she  runs  away  from  me 
— then  Alfred  will  be  off  too. 


FROM  THE   SECOND  ACT 

Solness.  Yes,  thanks  to  the  fire.  For  then  I  got 
money  in  my  hands  to  build  with.  To  build  after  my 
own  heart,  you  understand. 

Hilda.     For  yourself,  then  ? 

Solness.  No,  not  at  once.  But  I  laid  out  the  big 
garden  in  villa  lots,  and  built  four  or  five  houses  there — . 
To  begin  with,  you  see. 

Hilda  (ardently).  Yes,  yes,  that  was  very  sensible  of 
you.  For  then  the  stupid  people  could  see  what  they 
were  like. 

Solness.  Yes,  they  could.  And  so  I  came  to  the 
front  with  a  rush.  Every  one  who  was  at  all  able  to, 
would  have  a  house  from  me.  Since  that  time  I  have 
raised  building  after  building  round  the  outskirts  of  the 
town.  And  far  down  the  fiord  too.  And  right  up  in  the 
country.  And  now  at  last  they  have  begun  to  talk  of  me 
abroad  —  (Breaking  off.)  Well,  who  knows — who 
knows ? 

Solness  (with  a  slight  smile) .  After  all,  why  shouldn't 
one  play  a  little  with  the  impossible? 

Hilda  (with  animation).  Yes,  indeed,  that  I  can 
understand  very  well. 

Solness.  For,  you  see,  there  are  some  people  who 
are  always  expecting  to  win  in  the  lottery.  Even  when 
they  never  have  a  ticket. 


4«4  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Hilda  (looking  serious).     Oh  yes,  there  must  be  such 
trolls  in  the  world,  too. 
Solness.     Why  trolls? 
Hilda.     What  would  you  call  it,  then? 


Solness  (confidentially).  Don't  you  agree  with  me, 
Hilda,  that  there  are  certain  people  who  have  the  power 
and  faculty  of  desiring  a  thing,  craving  for  a  thing,  wil- 
ling a  thing — so  persistently  and  so — so  inexorably — that 
at  last  it  has  to  happen  ? 

Hilda.     Of  its  own  accord  ? 

Solness.     Yes.     Don't  you  believe  that? 

Hilda.  No,  I  certainly  don't,  I  think  that,  if  you 
want  to  carry  anything  through,  you  have  got  to  put 
your  hand  to  it  yourself. 

Solness.  Pure  imagination.  It  is  not  one's  self  alone 
that  does  it. 


Solness.  Why  did  you  not  write  to  me  now  and 
then? 

Hilda.  Oh,  because  it  was  so  thrilling,  not  to  know 
when  you  would  come. 

Solness.     Then  you  were  sure  I  should  come? 

Hilda.  I  expected  it  every  single  day,  from  early  in 
the  morning.  It  was  so  gloriously  thrilling. — But  we 
were  going  to  write  on  the  drawings,  Mr.  Solness. 


Mrs.  Solness.  Oh — I  can  see  what  I  can  see,  Hal- 
vard. 

Solness.  Well,  after  this  we  shall  have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  these  people.     And  that  is  a  good  thing. 


THE   MASTER  BUILDER  465 

Mrs.  Solness.     Are  you  really  dismissing  them? 

Solness.     Yes. 

Mrs.  Solness.     Her  as  well  ? 

Solness.     Was  not  that  what  you  wished  ? 

Mrs.  Solness.  But  how  can  you  get  on  without 
her — ?  (stops  and  throws  a  glance  at  Hilda.)  Oh,  per- 
haps you  have  another  one  in  reserve,  Halvard  ? 

Solness.     But,  my  dear,  good  Aline ! 

Hilda  (playfully).  No,  indeed,  Mrs.  Solness.  You 
needn't  be  afraid  of  me.  I  am  not  the  person  to  stand 
at  that  desk. 

Mrs.  Solness.  But  Halvard  must  have  somebody 
with  him 

Solness  (changing  the  subject).  Never  mind,  never 
mind — don't  let  us  think  about  it.  It  will  be  all  right, 
Aline.  Now  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  think  about  moving 
into  our  new  home — as  quickly  as  we  can.  This  evening 
we  will  hang  up  the  wreath — (Turns  to  Hilda.) — right 
on  the  very  pinnacle  of  the  tower.  What  do  you  say  to 
that  Miss  Hilda? 

Hilda  (looks  at  him  with  sparkling  eyes).  It  will  be 
splendid  to  see  you  so  high  up  once  more. 

Solness.     Me! 

Mrs.  SolnEss.  For  Heaven's  sake.  Miss  Wangel — ■ 
don't  imagine  such  a  thing.  When  my  husband  always 
gets  so  dizzy. 

Hilda.     He  get  dizzy! 

Solness  (vehemently).  I  don't  get  dizzy!  It  is  only 
your  imagination!     I  don't! 

Mrs.  Solness.  Oh,  how  can  you  say  so,  Halvard  ? 
Why,  you  can't  even  bear  to  go  out  on  the  second  storey 
balcony  here. 

Solness.     You  are  wrong,  I  tell  you 


466  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Solness.  Oh,  but  you  always  have  been  so, 
dear.     Why  will  you  never  admit  it? 

Solness.  You  are  wrong,  Aline.  Perhaps  you  will 
see  that  this  evening. 

Mrs.  Solness.  No,  please  God  I  shall  never  see  that. 
I  will  write  to  the  doctor — and  I  am  sure  he  won't  let 
you  do  it. 

Solness.     Why,  Aline ! 

Mrs.  Solness.  Oh,  but  you're  ill,  Halvard!  Oh 
God — Oh  God!     (She  goes  out  to  the  right.) 


FROM  THE   THIRD   ACT 

Hilda.     All  these  ten  years  I  have  stayed  at  home, 
believing  in  you.     Simply  believing  in  you.     And  every 
day  I  have  seen  you  in  my  thoughts,  free  and  high  up. 

Solness.     Oh,  Hilda,  it  is  not  every  day  that  one  can 
be  so. 

Hilda  (imploringly).     Just  once  more,  Mr.  Solness. 

Solness.     I  cannot.     Have  I  not  told  you  that  what 
I  did  then  was  the  impossible? 

Hilda.     Well  then,  do  the  impossible  once  again! 

Solness.     Such  a  thing  can  never  be  done  again. 

Hilda.     Yov  can  do  it. 

Solness    (looking   at   her).     How   have   you   become 
what  you  are,  Hilda? 

Hilda.     How  have  you  made  me  what  I  am? 

[Well  how  ? 

By  willing  and  daring  the  impossible.] 

Solness.     The  princess  shall  have  her  castle. 

Hilda  [jubilant,  clapping  her  hands).     Oh,  Mr.  Sol- 
ness  ! 


THE   MASTER  BUILDER  467 

Solness.     Her  castle  in  the  air  the  princess  shall  have. 
[The  one  with  a  firm  foundation.] 


[If  I  ever  try  it,  H.,  I  will  stand  up  there  and  say  to 
him;  Hear  me,  Mighty  Lord,  thou  may'st  judge  me  as 
thou  wilt.  But  hereafter  I  will  build  nothing  but  the 
loveliest  thing  in  the  world.  Build  it  for  a  princess, 
whom  I  love.  H.  You  would  say  that!  S.  Yes.  And 
then  I  will  say  to  him :  Now  I  shall  go  down  and  throw 
my  arms  round  her  and  kiss  her.  H.  Many  times. 
S.  Many,  many  times.  H.  And  then — .  S.  Then 
I  would  wave  my  hat  and  come  down  and  do  as  I  said 
to  him.     H.     Do  the  impossible  once  again! 

Now  I  see  you  again  as  I  did  when  there  was  song  in 
the  air.] 


LITTLE  EYOLF 


CHARACTERS 

Harald  Borgheim. 
Johanne,  his  wife. 
Rita,  his  sister. 

Alfred,  his  son,  eleven  years  old. 
Eivind  Almer,  a  road  engineer. 
Miss  Varg,  Johanne's  aunt. 
{The  action  takes  place  on  Borgheim's  property,  on  the 
fiord.) 

FROM  THE  FIRST  ACT 

Well,  but  that  can  only  be  good  for  him. 
Rita.     Do  you  really  think  so  ? 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.     I   don't   think  one   way   or  the 
other.     Hakon  himself  is  the  best  judge  of  such  things. 
(Hakon  Skioldheim  enters  by  the   door  on  the  left, 
leading  little  Alfred  by  the  hand.     He  has  a  slim, 
slight  figure  and  a  serious  expression.      Thin  dark 
hair  and  beard.     Alfred  is  undersized,  and  looks 
somewhat  delicate.) 
Hakon  Skioldheim.     Well,  have  you  come,  Rita  ? 
Rita.     Yes,  I  felt  I  must — .     Welcome  home  again. 
Skioldheim.     Thank  you. 
Mrs.  Skioldheim.     Doesn't  he  look  well  ? 
Rita.     Splendid!     Quite  splendid!     His  eyes  are  so 
much  brighter!     And  I  suppose  you  have  done  a  great 
deal  of  writing  on  your  travels?     I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
you  had  finished  the  whole  book,  Hakon  [Alfred]? 

Skioldheim  [Alf].     The  book ? 

471 


472  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rita  [A].  Yes,  I  was  sure  you  would  find  it  go  so 
easily  when  once  you  got  away. 

Skioldheim.  The  truth  is,  I  have  not  written  a  line 
of  the  book. 

Rita.     Not  a  line ? 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  Oho!  I  wondered  when  I  found 
all  the  paper  lying  untouched  in  your  bag. 

Rita.  But,  dear  me,  what  have  you  been  doing  for 
these  two  months  [all  this  time]? 

Skioldheim  (smiling).  Only  thinking, thinking, think- 
ing. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim  (putting  her  arm  round  his  neck). 
And  thinking  a  little,  too,  of  those  you  had  left  at  home  ? 

Skioldheim.  Yes,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  I  have 
thought  a  great  deal  of  you. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.     Oh,  how  nice  of  you. 

Rita.  But  you  haven't  even  touched  the  book.  And 
yet  you  can  look  so  happy.  And  so  contented  with  your- 
self. That  is  not  what  you  generally  do — I  mean  when 
your  work  is  going  badly. 

Skioldheim.  You  are  right  there.  For  I  have  been 
such  a  fool  hitherto,  Rita.  All  the  best  that  is  in  you 
goes  into  thinking.  What  you  put  on  paper  is  worth 
very  little. 

Rita.     Worth  very  little! 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.     Oh  but,  Hakon ! 

Alfred.  Oh  yes,  Papa,  what  you  write  is  worth  a 
great  deal! 

Skioldheim  (smiling,  stroking  his  hair).  Well,  well, 
since  you  say  so —  But  I  can  tell  you,  some  one  is  com- 
ing after  me  who  will  do  it  better. 

Alfred.     Who  can  that  be?     Oh,  tell  me! 

Skioldheim.     Only  wait — you  may  be  sure  he  will 


LITTLE   EYOLF  473 

come,  and  let  us  hear  of  him.     But  next  summer,  when  I 
go  to  the  mountains  again,  I  will  take  you  with  me,  Alfred. 

Alfred.     Take  me! 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  Oh  fie,  Hakon — are  you  thinking 
of  deserting  me  again  £. 

Rita  (to  Alfred).  Would  you  not  like  to  go  with  him, 
little  boy  ? 

Alfred  (considering).  Oh,  yes — I  think  I  should. 
If  it  is  not  very  dangerous 

Skioldheim.     Dangerous  ?     How  do  you  mean  ? 

Alfred.     Well,  might  I  not  easily  fall  and  be  crippled  ? 

Skioldheim  (decisively).  You  must  and  shall  come 
with  me  to  the  mountains,  my  boy. 

Rita.  And  then  you  must  ask  your  father  to  let  you 
learn  to  shoot,  and  hunt,  and  swim — and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.     Would  you  not  like  that,  Alfred  ? 

Alfred.  Yes,  I  should  like  that  very  much. — Well 
— I  should  only  have  to  be  rather  careful 

Skioldheim.  Yes,  you  would  have  to  be,  of  course. 
But  now  you  can  run  down  into  the  garden  and  amuse 
yourself. 

Alfred.     Shall  I  not  take  some  books  with  me  ? 

Skioldheim.     No,  no,  no  books. 

Alfred.  Well  then,  I'll  just  go  down  and  amuse  my- 
self. 

(He  is  going  out  on  to  the  veranda,  but  stops  and 
comes  back.) 

Alfred.     Oh,  no — I  dare  not! 

Skioldheim.     Why  daren't  you  ? 

Alfred.     Because  Aunt  Ellen  is  coming  that  way! 

Skioldheim.     Are  you  so  afraid  of  her  too? 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.     What  can  she  want  here  ? 

Alfred.  Papa,  do  you  think  it  is  true  that  she  is  a 
were- wolf  at  night? 


474  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Skioldheim.  Oh,  not  at  all.  What  put  that  into 
your  head  ? 

Alfred.     I  don't  know,  but  that's  what  I  think. 

Skioldheim.  She  has  had  a  lot  of  trouble.  And  it 
has  made  her  rather  strange.     That  is  all. 

(Miss  Varg  comes  up  the  steps  on  to  the  veranda. 
She  is  old  and  grey-haired.  A  thin  little  shrunken 
figure.  Old-fashioned  fiowered  gown.  Black  hood 
and  cloak.  She  has  in  her  hand  a  large  red  um- 
brella, and  carries  a  black  bag  over  her  arm.) 

Miss  Varg.  Good  morning,  good  morning  to  you 
all!     It  is  long  since  I  set  foot  here. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  Yes,  it  is  a  long  time.  Won't 
you  sit  down  and  rest  a  little  ? 

Miss  Varg.  Yes,  indeed!  Thanks!  (Seats  herself 
on  a  chair  by  the  sofa).  I  have  been  out  at  my  work. 
And  must  go  out  again.  And  it  takes  your  strength  out 
of  you. 

Skioldheim.    So  you  have  been  out  this  morning ? 

Miss  Varg.  Yes,  over  on  Grono.  (Laughing  to  her- 
self.) The  people  sent  for  me  last  night,  to  be  sure. 
They  didn't  like  it  a  bit.  But  at  last  they  had  to  bite  the 
sour  apple — .  (Looks  at  Alfred,  and  nods.)  The  sour 
apple,  my  boy.     The  sour  apple. 

Alfred  (involuntarily,  timidly).  Why  did  they  have 
to ? 

Miss  Varg.     What  ? 

Alfred.     To  bite  it? 

Miss  Varg.  Why,  because  they  couldn't  keep  body 
and  soul  together. 

Alfred  (turns  a  doubtful  and  questioning  look  upon  his 
father) . 

Skioldheim.  Why  could  they  not  keep  body  and  soul 
together  ? 


LITTLE   EYOLF  475 

Miss  Varg.     Because  of  the  rats  and  mice,  of  course. 

Alfred.     The  rats  and ! 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  Ugh!  Poor  people!  Have  they 
so  many  of  them  ?      — 

Miss  Varg  (laughing).  Yes,  it  was  all  alive  and 
swarming  with  them.  Both  indoors  and  out.  They 
came  creepy-crawly  up  into  the  beds  all  night  long.  They 
plumped  into  the  milk-cans,  and  they  went  pattering  all 
over  the  floor,  backwards  and  forwards.  But  then  I 
came. 

Alfred.  How  can  any  one  dare  [I  could  never  dare] 
go  there !     [I  shall  never  go  there,  Auntie.] 

Miss  Varg.  I  dare.  And  then  I  took  them  with  me 
— every  one.  The  sweet  little  creatures!  I  made  an 
end  of  every  one  of  them. 

Alfred  (with  a  shriek).     Papa — look!  look! 

Skioldheim.     What  is  it? 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.     Good  heavens,  Alfred! 

Alfred.     There's  something  wriggling  in  the  bag! 

Mrs.  Skioldheim  (shrieks).     Ugh! 

Miss  Varg  (laughing) .  Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid  of 
such  a  little  thing. 

Skioldheim.     But  what  is  it? 

Miss  Varg  (loosening  the  string  of  the  bag) .     Why, 
it's  only  little  Mopseman.     Come  out,  my  little  friend! 
(A  little  dog  with  a  broad  black  snout  pokes  its  head 
out  of  the  bag.) 

Miss  Varg  (to  Alfred).  Come  a  little  nearer.  He 
won't  bite.     Come  along! 

Alfred.     No,  I  dare  not. 

Miss  Varg  (stroking  the  dog).  Don't  you  think  he  has 
a  gentle,  friendly  countenance,  my  young  master? 

Alfred  [(pointing)].     That  thing  there? 

Miss  Varg.     Yes,  this  thing  here. 


476  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Alfred  {{staring  fixedly  at  the  dog)]  (almost  under  his 
breath).  I  think  he  has  the  horriblest — countenance  I 
ever  saw. 

Miss  Varg  (closing  the  bag).  Oh,  it  will  come — it 
will  come,  right  enough. 

Alfred  ([drawing  nearer,]  involuntarily  strokes  the 
bag).     But  he  is  lovely — lovely  all  the  same. 

Miss  Varg  (in  a  tone  of  caution).  But  now  he  is  so 
tired,  so  utterly  tired  out,  poor  thing.  For  it  takes  the 
strength  out  of  you, — that  sort  of  work. 

Skioldheim.     What  sort  of  work  ? 

Miss  Varg.     Luring. 

Skioldheim.     Then  is  it  the  dog  that  lures  the  rats  ? 

Miss  Varg.  Mopseman  and  I.  I  slip  a  string  through 
his  collar,  and  then  I  lead  him  three  times  round  the 
house  [,and  play  on  my  Pan's  pipes].  And  then  they 
have  to  come  out  of  their  hiding-places — every  one  of 
them.  [All  the  blessed  little  creatures.]  Whether  they 
like  it  or  not. 

Alfred.     And  then  does  he  bite  them? 

Miss  Varg.  Oh,  not  at  all.  No,  we  go  down  to  the 
boat,  he  and  I  do — and  then  they  follow  after  us  [, — both 
the  big  ones  and  the  little  children]. 

Alfred  (eagerly).     And  what  then ? 

Miss  Varg.  Then  I  take  my  seat  in  the  stern.  [And 
play  on  my  Pan's  pipes.]  And  Trond  pushes  out  from 
the  land.  And  Mopseman  swims  behind.  And  I  hold 
him  by  the  string.  And  all  the  rats  and  all  the  mice, 
they  follow  [and  follow]  us.     Ay,  for  they  have  to. 

Alfred.     Why  do  they  have  to  ? 

Miss  Varg.  Just  because  they  want  not  to.  [Because 
they  are  so  deadly  afraid  of  the  water — that  is  why  they 
have  got  to  plunge  into  it.] 

Alfred.     Are  they  drowned,  then? 


LITTLE   EYOLF  477 

Miss  Varg.  Every  blessed  one.  [And  then  they 
are  at  peace,  the  lovely  little  things.  Down  there  they 
sleep  sweetly  and  securely.]  (She  rises.)  In  the  old 
days,  I  can  tell  you — I  didn't  need  any  Mopseman.  For 
then  I  did  the  luring  myself — in  another  way. 

Alfred.     And  what  did  you  lure  then? 

Miss  Varg.  Men.  One  most  of  all.  One  in  par- 
ticular. 

Alfred  (eagerly) .     Oh,  who  was  that  one  ?     Tell  me ! 

Miss  Varg  (laughing).  It  was  my  own  sweetheart,  it 
was  [,  little  heart-breaker]. 

Alfred.     And  why  did  you  lure  him? 

Miss  Varg.  Because  he  had  gone  away  from  me  [I 
loved  him  so  dearly].  Far,  far  away  over  the  salt  sea 
waves.  But  I  drew  him  and  drew  him  home  to  me  again. 
I  almost  had  him. — But  then  my  grasp  failed.  He  was 
gone — for  ever. 

Alfred.     Well,  where  is  he  now,  then  ? 

Miss  Varg.  Down  where  all  the  rats  are. — But  now 
I  must  really  be  off  and  get  to  business  again.  Have  you 
any  use  for  me  here  ?  I  could  finish  it  all  off  while  I  am 
about  it. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  No,  thank  you,  Miss  Varg — I 
don't  think  we  require  anything. 

Miss  Varg.  Well,  well,  you  can  never  tell — .  If 
there  should  be  anything,  just  send  for  Aunt  Ellen. 
(Laughs.)  Isn't  it  strange  that  everybody  calls  me 
Aunt  Ellen  ?  And  yet  I  have  no  living  kinsfolk — neither 
in  heaven  or  earth.  Well,  good-bye,  good-bye  to  you 
all. 

(She  goes  out  by  the  door  on  the  right.  Shortly  after- 
wards, Alfred  slips  cautiously  and  unnoticed  out 
into  the  garden.) 

Rita.     To-day  she  was  almost  horrible. 


478  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.     I  think  she  is  so  always. 

Skioldheim.  I  can  very  well  understand  the  sort  of 
spellbound  fascination  that  she  talked  about.  Nature 
among  the  glaciers  and  the  great  waste  places  has  some- 
thing of  the  same  magic  about  it. 

Rita  (looks  attentively  at  him).  [What  is  it  that  has 
happened  to  you — ]  Something  seems  almost  to  have 
transformed  you,  Hakon. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.     Yes,  don't  you  think  so  too  ? 

Skioldheim.  Something  has  happened,  that  has 
transformed  me.  It  has  happened  within  me.  For  in 
external  reality  I  have  had  no  adventure  on  my  journey. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim  (seats  herself  on  the  sofa).  You 
must  tell  us  all  about  it. 

Skioldheim.  Yes,  let  us  sit  down,  too,  Rita — then 
I  will  try. 

(He  seats  himself  on  the  sofa  at  his  wife's  side.     Rita 
on  a  chair  by  the  table.) 

Skioldheim  (after  a  brief  pause).  The  journey  has 
really  made  me  so  happy  and  light-hearted.  But  there 
has  been  a  tinge  of  melancholy  with  it,  that  I  cannot  shake 
off. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  That  must  be  because  you  have 
not  been  able  to  work 

Skioldheim  (smiles  rather  sadly).  Yes,  you  know  me. 
You  know  that  hitherto  it  has  been  so  with  me. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim  (smiles).  Very  cross  and  fretful. 
Quite  out  of  humour  when  there  was  now  and  then  a 
difficulty  with  your  writing. 

Skioldheim.  Well,  you  see,  my  dear  Andrea — I  have 
now  got  over  those  vexations. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  While  you  were  in  the  moun- 
tains ? 


LITTLE   EYOLF  479 

Skioldheim.  Yes,  up  in  the  great  solitude. — Well 
I  can't  say  I  have  not  been  a  happy  man  hitherto.  But 
I  have  lived  my  life  far  too  much  in  the  study.  Without 
cares,  without  troubles  of  any  kind.  Abundance  on 
every  side. — {Giving  them  his  hands.)  And  then  you 
two  to  flatter  me  and  spoil  me. 

Rita.     All  we  have  done  is  to  understand  you,  Hakon. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  We  have  believed  in  you.  And 
tried  to  go  with  you. 

Skioldheim.  When  I  look  back—.  Book  after  book 
I  have  sent  out  into  the  world.  They  were  well  done,  I 
believe.  And  they  have  been  well  received  too.  And 
now  the  masterpiece  was  to  come  out.  The  work  on  the 
spiritual  [psychological]  doctrine  of  life 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  Yes,  but  it  will  come  out— it  will 
come  out,  Hakon.     Now  that  you  are  at  home  again ■ 

Skioldheim.  It  will  never  come  out,  dear — .  Must 
never  come  out. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.     Good  heavens,  but  why  not  ? 

Skioldheim.  Because  there  is  a  fundamental  defect 
in  it. 

Rita.  A  fundamental  defect  ?  But  can  you  not  rem- 
edy it  ? 

Skioldheim.     No,  it  is  irreparable,  Rita. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  Yes,  but  now  that  you  have 
discovered  it 

Rita.     But  what  can  this  fundamental  defect  be  ? 

Skioldheim.  I  have  not  taken  renunciation  into  ac- 
count. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.     Renunciation  ? 

Skioldheim.  Renunciation,  yes.  Self-denial.  The 
desire— the  joy  of  self-sacrifice.  All  that  should  be  the 
inmost  core  of  one's  conduct. 


480  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rita.     Well,  but  why  not  include  all  this  now  ? 

Skioldheim  (shakes  his  head).  It  shall  not  be  put 
into  any  book.  What  I  have  learnt  to  see — shall  be 
made  part  of  my  own  life's  conduct. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.     What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

Skioldheim.  You  see — every  family — that  has 
breeding,  be  it  observed — has  its  ascending  series  of 
generations:  it  rises  from  father  to  son,  until  it  reaches 
the  highest  point  the  family  is  capable  of  attaining.  And 
then  it  goes  down  again. 

Rita.     You  are  destined  to  attain  the  highest,  Hakon. 

Skioldheim.  My  belief  in  that  has  been  the  great 
delusion  of  my  life. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.     You  don't  believe  it  any  longer! 

Skioldheim.  No.  Now  I  know  that  it  is  not  so. 
I  have  usurped  a  throne.  Now  I  resign  it.  I  abdi- 
cate  

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  In  whose  favour  should  you  ab- 
dicate ? 

Skioldheim.     In  favour  of  the  rightful  one. 

Mrs.  Skioldheim.  Yes,  but  who,  who,  in  Heaven's 
name,  is  the  rightful  one  ? 

Skioldheim.     Alfred  [Eivind]. 

Rita.     Alfred  [Eivind]! 

Mrs.  Skioldheim  [Mrs.  Almer].     Alfred  [Eivind] ! 
Do  you  think  that? 

Skioldheim  [Almer].  I  see  it.  He  will  be  the  sum- 
mit and  crown  of  the  Skioldheim  stock. 

Mrs.  Almer.     Ah,  do  you  believe  that,  Alfred  ? 

Almer.  I  believe  it  confidently.  I  will  devote  all 
my  powers  to  it.     I  will  be  his  teacher 

Mrs.  Almer.  Oh,  but  why  burden  your  life  so  ?  We 
have  no  need  of  that. 


LITTLE  EYOLF  481 

Allmer.  It  is  not  any  technical  knowledge  that  I 
want  to  cram  him  with.  It  is  the  art  of  life  itself  that  I 
will  try  to  make  him  understand.  Make  the  art  of  life 
his  very  nature. 

Mrs.  Allmer.  But,  Alfred,  what  is  the  'art  of  life'? 
There  is  no  art  in  living,  I  should  think. 

Allmer.     Don't  you  think  so  ? 

Mrs.  Allmer.  No,  it  is  the  simplest  thing  in  the 
world.  Living!  When  one  has  enough  to  live  on,  as 
we  have.  And  when  one  can  live  exactly  as  one  pleases. 
And  need  do  nothing  but  what  one  thinks  right  and 
proper. 

Allmer.  Yes,  you  have  a  bright  and  happy  disposi- 
tion, Andrea. 

Mrs.     Allmer.     You  ought  to  cultivate  th*;  same. 

Allmer.  It  will  come  to  me  through  the  fulfilment 
of  my  duty. 

Mrs.  Allmer.     What  duty  ? 

Allmar.  My  highest  duty.  The  duty  r»f  making 
every  side  of  Eivind's  individuality  attain  its  highest, 
fullest  development. 

Mrs.  Allmer.  Do  you  hold  that  to  be  your  highest 
duty? 

Allmer.     Yes,  for  a  father  there  is  none  higher. 

Mrs.  Allmer.     Nor  for  a  mother  either,  I  suppose  ? 

Allmer.  No,  that  is  understood.  If  I  say  /,  it  is 
only  an  instance,  a  relic,  of  my  old  egoism.  Such  things 
are  not  so  easy  to  tear  up  by  the  roots.  I  mean,  of  course, 
we.     We  two  in  fellowship,  Andrea. 

Mrs.  Allmer.  No,  my  dearest  Alfred,  I  really  cannot 
be  altogether  with  you  in  this. 

Allmer.  You  cannot  devote  your  existence  to  per- 
fecting our  child!     As  far  as  we  are  able. 

Mrs.  Allmer.     Oh,  you  talk  about  existence.     Ex- 


482  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

istence — that  is  life — one's  sense  of  happiness,  I  think  it 
might  be  called. 

Allmer  (seriouly,  almost  severely).  I  know  of  no 
deeper  sense  of  happiness  than  that  of  seeing  Eivind  grow 
under  my  hands. 

Mrs.  Allmer.  But  you  used  only  to  occupy  yourself 
with  him  in  such  a  very  desultory  way. 

Allmer.  I  am  sorry  to  say  you  are  right  there.  I 
have  been  too  much  taken  up  by  myself  and  by 

Mrs.  Allmer.     — and  by ? 

Allmer.  — by  all  these  morbid,  distorted,  baseless 
fancies  that  I,  myself,  had  some  special  mission  in  the 
world.  Something  of  extreme  importance  and  moment 
— something  that  concerned  myself  alone. 

Mrs.  Allmer.  Is  this  all  that  has  occupied  you  ? 
Occupied  your  life,  Alfred  ? 

Allmer.     Yes. 

Mrs.  Allmer.     Nothing  else  at  all  ? 

Allmer.  Nothing  worth  mentioning,  as  far  as  I  can 
see. 

Mrs.  Allmer.     No  person  either  ?     No  other  person  ? 

Allmer.  Other  person  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Who 
should  that  be? 

Mrs.  Allmer.     Myself,  I  suppose. 

Allmer.  Oh,  you,  yes.  But,  my  dearest  Andrea, 
that  is  a  matter  of  course 

Mrs.  Allmer.  No,  no,  no!  I  won't  hear  of  anything 
that  is  a  matter  of  course.  I  will  have  it  to  be  because  I 
am  myself.     And  because  you  are  yourself. 

Allmer.  But,  dearest  Andrea,  that's  just  as  it  was 
in  the  days  of  our  honeymoon 

Mrs.  Allmer.     Yes,  and  so  it  must  continue. 

Allmer.  No,  but  look  here — we  must  begin  to  be 
reasonable  some  day. 


LITTLE   EYOLF  483 

Mrs.  Allmer.  Never  in  this  world  will  you  get  me 
to  be  reasonable.  Not  on  this  point.  This  talk  about 
being  reasonable — it  is  nothing  but  excuses — when  one 
doesn't  care  any  more. 

Allmer.     No,  but  listen  to  me 

Mrs.  Allmer.  I  have  one  thing  to  say  to  you,  Alfred 
— I  will  not  consent  to  give  up  my  place — the  first  place 
in  your  heart.     Not  even  for  my  own  little  boy. 

Rita.  Alfred  must  always  have  some  one  to  devote 
himself  to.  He  has  always  been  so.  Towards  me  too. 
As  early  as  I  can  remember. 


Mrs.  Allmer.  Is  it  only  this  that  has  put  you  in  such 
wild  spirits  to-day? 

Borgheim.  Yes,  and  all  the  brightness  and  hopeful- 
ness [bright  and  hopeful  prospects]  that  is  being  showered 
upon  me  [that  are  opening  out  before  me]. 

Mrs.  Allmer.     Is  there  still  something  more  ? 

Borgheim.  Yes,  there  is!  There  is — .  No,  I  can't 
keep  it  in  any  longer.     {Turns  to  Rita.)     Shall  we ? 

Rita  (quickly  and  softly).  No,  no — !  Oh,  take  a 
little  walk  in  the  garden,  you  mean  ? 

Borgheim.     Walk —  ?     Yes,  that  is  just  what  I  meant. 

Rita,     Yes,  I  should  like  to. 

Allmer.  And  [while  you  are  there]  you  can  see  what 
Eivind  is  doing.     He  is  playing  down  there. 

Borgheim.  Oh,  then  Eivind  has  begun  to  play 
now  ?     He  used  always  to  be  sitting  over  his  books. 

Allmer.  There  is  to  be  an  end  of  that  now.  I  am 
going  to  make  a  regular  open-air  boy  of  him. 

Borgheim.  Ah,  now,  that's  right!  Out  into  the 
open  air  with  him.     Good  Lord,  what  can  we  possibly 


484  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

do  better  than  play  in  this  blessed  world  ?     For  my  part, 
I  think  all  life  is  one  long  playtime! 

(He  and  Rita  go  out  on  the  veranda  and  down 
through  the  garden.) 

Allmer  (looking  after  them).  Is  there  anything  be- 
tween those  two  ? 

Mrs.  Almer.  I  am  beginning  almost  to  think  so. 
Would  it  displease  you  if  there  were  ? 

Allmer.  It  would  not  exactly  displease  me.  But  of 
course,  I  am  in  a  way  responsible  for  Rita.  And  it  is 
always  a  precarious  thing  when  two  people  form  an 
attachment  of  this  sort. 

Mrs.  Allmer  (looking  at  him).  You  mean  that  it  does 
not  last  ? 

Allmer.  One  can  never  tell.  Even  those  who  en- 
gage themselves  cannot  tell  that. 

Mrs.  Allmer.  For  my  part,  I  don't  think  at  all  ill  of 
Borgheim. 

Allmer.  No,  dear — ill  ?  Who  is  saying  anything  of 
the  sort?  But  I  am  so  afraid  that  those  two  have  no 
right  to  undergo  transformation  together. 

Mrs.  Allmer.    Transformation  ?    Must  they  do  that  ? 

Allmer.  Or  develop — if  you  prefer  it.  Mature. 
Grow.  You  must  remember  that  in  married  life  new 
situations  are  formed.  Little  by  little,  you  understand. 
New  duties  assert  themselves.  The  children,  too,  claim 
their  rights.     They  have  the  first  claim,  Andrea. 

Mrs.  Allmer  (close  to  him,  almost  wildly).  Do  you 
say  that!     The  first.     Do  you  say  that,  Alfred! 

Allmer.  Yes,  for  that  is  how  I  have  come  to  look  at 
things. 

Mrs.  Allmer.     Then  you  don't  love  me  any  more? 

Allmer.  Andrea,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing? 
For  it  is  impossible  that  you  can  mean  it! 


LITTLE   EYOLF  485 

Mrs.  Allmer.  Oh  yes,  I  am  not  far  from  meaning 
it  now.  You  are  no  longer  the  same  to  me  as  you  used 
to  be.     Not  as  you  were  the  first  year. 

Allmer.  Never  have  you  been  dearer  to  me  than  you 
are  now,  Andrea. 

Mrs.  Allmer.  But  not  in  the  same  way.  You  have 
begun  to  divide  yourself  between  me  and  your  work. 
And  I  will  not  endure  that.  I  want  you  entirely  to  my- 
self. (Throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck.)  Oh,  Alfred, 
Alfred,  I  cannot  give  you  up! 


(Engineer  Borgheim  and  Rita  come  up  from  tlie 
garden.) 

Borgheim.  There!  Hurrah!  Now  I  have  permis- 
sion to  tell  the  news! 

Mrs.  Allmers.  It  is  scarcely  necessary,  is  it,  dear  Mr. 
Borgheim  ? 

Borgheim.  Ah?  Is  it  not?  Have  you  really  been 
able  to  notice  anything  in  us  ? 

Mrs.  Allmers.     Oh  yes,  indeed. 

Borgheim.  Well,  now  she  has  surrendered.  To  me — > 
unconditionally.     She  hesitates  no  longer 

Mrs.  Allmers.     Then  she  did  before? 

Borgheim.     I  can't  say  she  did  not. 

Allmers.  I  hope  this  may  mean  happiness  to  you, 
dear  Rita. 

Rita  (kissing  his  hand).  Thanks,  thanks  for  all  you 
have  been  to  me. 

Allmers.     Rita!     My  little  Rita! 

Borgheim.  And  now  she  is  going  with  me.  To 
share  my  work.  We  may  have  mountain  passes  enough 
to  overcome.  And  abrupt  precipices  that  might  make 
one  dizzv. 


486  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Allmers.  Oh,  if  you  but  keep  together  in  sympathy 
— all  will  be  well. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  And  let  no  evil  eye  [come  between 
you]  and  take  him  from  you,  Rita. 

Rita.     Evil  eye? 

SECOND   ACT 

A  little,  open  place  by  the  side  ofthejiord,  on  Allmers's 
property.  Mostly  fir-trees,  but  with  birclies  among 
them.  A  bench,  a  round  table,  and  one  or  two 
chairs,  all  made  of  tree-trunks  and  boughs  with  the 
bark  on,  are  set  up  on  the  right.  Some  large  boul- 
ders lie  on  the  beach  and  out  in  the  water.  It  is 
about  noon,  on  a  sunny  day.  Tlie  fiord  lies  as  still 
as  a  mirror. 
(Alfred  Allmers,  in  his  grey  summer  clothes,  but 
with  a  mourning  band  on  the  arm,  sits  on  the  bench, 
resting  his  arms  on  the  table.  His  grey  felt  hat, 
also  with  a  mourning  band,  lies  on  one  of  the 
chairs.  He  sits  still  for  a  while,  and  gazes  ab- 
sently out  over  the  water.  Then  Miss  Andrea 
Allmers,  dressed  entirely  in  mourning,  comes 
down  a  little  wooded  hill  on  the  left,  and  goes 
quietly  up  to  him.) 

Miss  Andrea.     Are  you  sitting  down  here,  Alfred  ? 

Allmers  (nods  slowly  without  answering). 

(Andrea  moves  his  hat  to  the  table  and  sits  down 
on  the  chair.) 

Andrea.  I  have  been  searching  for  you  such  a  long 
time.     Have  you  been  sitting  here  all  the  time  ? 


Andrea.     Oh,  but  it  is  not  at  all  certain  that  it  hap- 
pened so 


LITTLE   EYOLF  437 

Allmers.  Yes,  it  is.  I  am  sure  of  it.  It  must  have 
happened  so.  The  people  down  below — they  say  that 
Miss  Warg  rowed  out.  She  sat  in  the  stern  of  the  boat 
and  the  dog  swam  behind  on  a  string 

Andrea.     Yes,  yes,  but  all  the  same — that  doesn't 

Allmers.  And,  you  know,  there  are  some  who  saw 
Eyolf  standing  at  the  end  of  the  steamboat  pier.  A 
moment  later  he  was  gone.  No  one  saw  any  more  of 
him 

Andrea.     Yes,  they  say  so,  I  know,  but 


Allmers.  She  has  drawn  him  down,  Andrea — there 
is  no  doubt  about  it. 

Andrea.     But,  Alfred,  why  should  she  do  it  ? 

Allmers.  Yes,  that  is  just  the  question.  Why 
should  she —  ?  — Eyolf  certainly  never  did  her  any  harm. 
He  never  called  names  after  her;  he  never  threw  stones 
at  her  dog.  Why,  he  had  never  seen  her  till  yesterday. 
Nor  would  it  be  like  Evolf  to  do  such  things.  So  mean- 
ingless.  So  utterly  meaningless.  And  yet  the  order  of 
the  world  requires  it. 

Andrea.     Have  you  spoken  to  Rita  of  this? 

Allmers.     I  feel  as  if  I  can  talk  better  to  you  about  it. 

Andrea.     Alfred,  you  should  talk  to  Rita  too. 

Allmers.  I  will  do  so.  Both  to  you  and  to  her. — 
But  now  you  will  soon  be  leaving  us. 

Andrea.  That  will  not  make  a  separation  between 
you  and  me,  I  hope. 

Allmers.  No,  I  don't  think  I  could  imagine  such  a 
thing. 

Andrea.  We  shall  still  be  near  to  each  other,  however 
far  away  I  may  go. 

Allmers.  But  it  will  be  lonely  for  Rita  and  me. 
When  you  go  away  from  us  too. 

Andrea.     I  believe  Rita  would  rather  have  it  so. 


488  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Allmers  (looking  at  her).     She  would  rather ? 

Andrea.  She  would  rather  have  you  entirely  to  her- 
self. 

Allmers.     Have  you  noticed  that? 

Andrea.     Yes,  now  and  then. 

Allmers.  But  I  don't  think  that  applies  to  you, 
Andrea. 

Andrea.     No,  perhaps  not  so  much  to  me  as  to  others. 

Allmers.  For  she  knows,  of  course,  what  we  two 
have  been  to  each  other  all  our  days. 

Andrea.  Oh,  Alfred — say  rather,  what  you  have 
been  to  me.  You  have  been  everything  to  me.  No 
sacrifice  has  been  too  great  for  you. 

Allmers.  Oh,  nonsense,  sacrifice.  Oh,  I  have  loved 
you  so,  ever  since  you  were  a  little  child.  And  then  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  so  much  injustice  to  make  up 
for. 

Andrea.  You  were  generally  away  from  home  at  that 
time.  For  I  am  thinking  more  particularly  of  the  years 
when  you  were  at  the  University. 

Allmers.  Yes,  but,  dearest  Andrea — I  was  often  at 
home  on  visits. 

Andrea.     But  all  the  same 

Allmers.  You  have  never  hinted  at  such  a  thing  be- 
fore now.  I  thought  the  fault  must  be  all  on  father's 
side.     If  there  was  any  fault. 

Andrea.  Oh,  I  don't  think  the  fault  is  ever  entirely 
on  one  side 

Allmers.     You  may  be  right  there.     But  tell  me 


Andrea.  Oh,  please,  Alfred — say  no  more  about 
this!  (Looks  into  the  wood  on  the  right.)  Here  come 
Rita  and  Bergheim. 

Allmers.     Shall  we  go  and  meet  them  r 


LITTLE   EYOLF  489 

Andrea.  They  can  see  us.  They  are  coming  this 
way. 

Allmers.     Have  you  loved  Bergheim  long  ? 
Andrea  (with  a  rapid  glance  at  him) .     Loved  him  ? 
Allmers.     Yes  ? 

Andrea.     I  have  only  known  him  such  a  short  time. 
Allmers.     And  now  you  are  going  away  with  him. 
So  far,  far  away.     I  never  thought  that  we  two  should  be 
parted. 

Andrea.     Nor  I  either. 

Allmers  (looking  before  him).  Where  is  Eyolf  now? 
Can  anyone  tell  me  that  ?  No  one  in  all  the  world.  I 
know  only  that  he  is  gone  from  me.  And  soon  you  'will 
be  gone  from  me  too,  Andrea.  No  one,  no  one  of  my 
own  kin. 

Andrea.     You  have  Rita. 

Allmers.     Rita  is  no  kin  to  me— it  isn't  like  having 

a  sister 

Andrea  (eagerly) .     Do  you  say  that,  Alfred  ? 
Allmers.     Yes.     The  Allmers  family  is  a  thing  apart. 
We  have  always  had  vowels  for  our  initials.     And  we 
have  all  the  same  colour  of  eyes. 
Andrea.     I  too,  do  you  think? 

Allmers.  No,  that's  true.  Not  you.  You  are  not 
like  father.     You  take  more  after  your  mother.     But  all 

the  same 

Andrea.     All  the  same ? 

Allmers.  Living  together,  I  believe,  has  stamped  us 
alike— formed  us  in  each  other's  image.  Mentally  and 
outwardly. 

Andrea.     Do  you  feel  it  so,  Alfred  ? 
Allmers.     Yes,  that  is  just  how  I  feel  it. 

Andrea.     Then  you  force  me  to  tell  you ■ 

Allmers.     What?     What  is  it?     Tell  me  1 


490  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Andrea  (looking  out  to  the  right).     Presently.     Here 
they  are  coming. 

(Mrs.    Rita    Allmers    and    Engineer    Borgheim 
come  forward  through  the  trees.) 


Allmers.     Yes,  do  so. 

Borgheim  (to  Andrea).  Andrea — shall  we  go  a 
little  way  along  the  road  meanwhile? 

Andrea.     With  pleasure. 

(She  and  Borgheim  go  off  along  the  shore  to  the  left.) 
(Allmers  icanders  aboid  for  a  little;    then  he  seats 
himself  on  the  bench  on  the  left.     Rita  goes  ever 
to  him.) 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Can  you  think  the  thought,  Alfred 
— that  we  have  lost  him! 

Allmers.     We  must  accustom  ourselves  to  think,  it 

Mrs.  Allmers.  I  cannot.  I  cannot.  But  is  it  so 
certain  that  he  is  gone — for  ever? 

Allmers.  But  people  say  they  saw  him  lying  down 
on  the  bottom.  And  then  the  current  came  and  carried 
him  away. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  that.  But  it  is  not 
that  I  mean. 

Allmers.     What  then  ? 

Mrs.  Allmers.  He  seems  to  be  about  me  just  the 
same.     More,  a  thousand  times  more  than  before. 

Allmers     (bitterly.)     He  seems  so  now? 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Yes,  yes.  But  that  is  not  enough. 
I  must  see  him.     Hear  him.     Feel  him 

Allmers.  You  were  so  well  able  to  do  without  him 
before — for  half  a  day  at  a  time 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Yes,  for  then  I  knew  I  had  him  all 
the  same. 


LITTLE  EYOLF  491 

Allmers  (sadly).  Now  we  have  him  no  longer. 
Things  have  come  about,  as  you  wished 

Mrs.  Allmers.     What  did  I  wish? 

Allmers  (looking  severely  at  her).  That  little  Eyolf 
were  not  here. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  That  little  Eyolf  should  not  stand 
between  us.     That  was  what  I  wished! 

Allmers.  Well,  well,  he  does  not  stand  between  us 
any  more,  poor  boy. 

Mrs.  Allmers  (looking  at  him).  Perhaps  now  more 
than  ever. 

Allmers.     You  never  really  and  truly  loved  him. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Eyolf  would  never  let  me  take  him 
really  and  truly  to  my  heart. 

Allmers.     Because  you  did  not  want  to. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Oh  yes,  I  did.  I  did  want  to.  But 
some  one  stood  in  the  way  [ — even  from  the  first]. 

Allmers.  I,  do  you  mean  ?  [Do  you  mean  that  I 
stood  in  the  way  ?] 

Mrs.  Allmers.     Oh,  no — not  at  first. 

Allmers.     Who,  then  ? 

Mrs.  Allmers.     Andrea. 

Allmers.     Andrea?     Can  you  say  that,  Rita? 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Yes;  Andrea  took  him  to  her  heart 
from  the  time  when  he  was  quite  a  little  child. 

Allmers.     If  she  did  so,  she  did  it  in  love. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  That  is  just  it.  I  cannot  endure  to 
share  anything  with  others.     Not  in  love. 

Allmers.  WTe  two  should  have  shared  him  between 
us  in  love. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  We?  The  truth  is  you  have  never 
had  any  real  love  for  the  child. 

Allmers  (looks  at  her  in  surprise).  I  have  not — I 
How  can  you  say — how  can  you  think  such  a  thing! 


492  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Mrs.  Allmers.  No,  you  have  not.  You  used  to  be 
so  utterly  taken  up  by  your  work. 

Allmers.     Yes,  and  I  sacrificed  it  for  Eyolf  s  sake 

Mrs.  Allmers.     Yes,  but  not  out  of  love  for  him. 

Allmers.     Why  then?     Tell  me  what  you  suppose! 

Mrs.  Allmers.  You  had  begun  to  be  consumed  with 
mistrust  of  yourself.  All  the  happy  confidence — all  the 
hope  that  you  had  a  great  task  to  perform,  had  begun 
to  desert  you.     I  could  see  that. 

Allmers.  Oh  yes,  you  may  be  right  there.  But  all 
the  same 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Then  you  went  away.  Up  into  the 
great,  free  waste  places.  And  that  must  have  exalted 
your  mind 

Allmers.     It  has.     It  has.    Be  sure  of  that,  Andrea! 

Mrs.  Allmers.     But  not  exalted  it  to  love 

Allmers  {eagerly).  It  was  up  there  in  the  vastness 
and  solitude  that  I  gave  up  my  place  in  life  for  little 
Eyolf 's  sake. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     But  why — why  did  you  give  it  up  ? 

Allmers.     Why  ? 

Mrs.  Allmers.  [I  will  tell  you. — Allmers.  WTell  ?] 
Because  you  needed  something  new  to  fill  up  your  life. 
Andrea  had  so  often  talked  to  you  of  Eyolf's  great  abili- 
ties, of  all  the  possibilities  there  were  in  him — and  that 
sort  of  thing 

Allmers.  Yes,  she  took  most  interest  in  him.  But 
it  was  for  that  reason,  you  think ? 

Mrs.  Allmers.  You  wanted  to  make  a  prodigy  of 
him,  Alfred.  Because  he  was  your  child.  But  you  never 
really  loved  him.  Never  cared  for  him  sincerely  for  his 
own  sake. 

Allmers.     Do  you  think  that  ? 


LITTLE   EYOLF  493 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Yes.  If  I  had  known  that  you  loved 
him  sincerely,  I  might  perhaps  have  been  resigned  to 
sharing  you  with  him.  Although — no,  perhaps  not.  after 
all. 

Allmers  (looking  thoughtfully  at  her).  But  if  it  is  so, 
Rita,  then  we  two  have  never  really  possessed  our  own 
child. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     No,  not  in  perfect  love. 

Allmers.  And  now  we  are  sorrowing  so  bitterly  for 
him. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Yes,  isn't  it  curious  that  we  should 
grieve  like  this  over  a  little  stranger  boy  ? 

Allmers  (pained).     Oh,  don't  call  him  a  stranger! 

Mrs.  Allmers.  We  never  won  the  boy,  Alfred.  Not 
I — nor  you  either. 

Allmers  (wringing  his  hands).  And  now  it  is  too 
late!     Too  late! 

Mrs.  Allmers.  And  no  consolation.  No  hope  any- 
where— in    anything ! 

Allmers  (in  quiet  emotion).  I  dreamed  about  him 
last  night.  I  thought  I  saw  him  standing  in  the  garden. 
I  felt  so  glad.  So  rich.  So  he  was  not  lost  to  us.  We 
had  him.  And  the  terrible  reality  was  nothing  but  a 
dream.     Oh,  how  I   thanked   and  blessed 


Mrs.    Allmers    (moaning   softly).     I    could    not.     I 
could  not  [never  could]! 

Allmers.     Not  if  I  went  there  at  the  same  time  ? 

Mrs.  Allmers.     No,  no!     Not  for  all  the  glory  of 
,'ieaven ! 

Allmers.     Nor  I. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     No,  you  feel  it  so,  too,  don't  you — 
you  could  not  either,  could  you? 


494  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Allmers.     For  here  we  are  at  home — for  the  present. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Yes,  for  here  is  [the]  happiness  [we 
can  understand]. 

Allmers.     Happiness  ? 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Yes,  we  must  find  happiness  again. 
Without  happiness  I  cannot  live. 

Allmers.     Where  are  we  to  find  it  now  ? 

Mrs.  Allmers  (shaking  her  head).  No,  no,  no — you 
are  right  there.  We  shall  never  find  it,  while  we  do  noth- 
ing but  grieve  over  little  Eyolf.  (Looks  inquiringly  at 
him.)     But ? 

Allmers.     But ? 

Mrs.  Allmers  (quickly,  as  though  in  terror).  No,  no. 
I  dare  not  say  it!     Nor  even  think  it. 

Allmers.     Yes,  say  it!     Say  it,  Rita! 

Rita  (hesitatingly).  Could  we  not  try  to — ?  Would 
it  not  be  possible  to  forget  him? 

Allmers.     Forget  Eyolf! 

Mrs.  Allmers.     Forget  our  grief  for  him,  I  mean. 

Allmers.     Can  you  wish  it? 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Yes,  if  it  were  possible.  (With  an 
outburst.)     For  I  cannot  bear  this  for  ever! 

Allmers.  But  the  memory,  Rita  ?  We  cannot  escape 
that.     And  the  memory  brings  remorse. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  The  memory  of  little  Eyolf  will  soften 
with  time.     Oh,  don't  you  think  so,  Alfred  ? 

Allmers.  May  be — some  day,  perhaps.  But  the 
sense  of  void — can  that  ever  be  deadened  ? 

Mrs.  Allmers  (looking  before  her).  No,  there  it  is. 
The  void — the  void.  Every  day,  every  hour — it  will 
assert  itself  in  the  smallest  trifle. 

Allmers.  Even  the  empty  chair  at  table.  Even  the 
fact  that  his  coat  is  not  hanging  in  its  usual  place  in  the 
hall 


LITTLE   EYOLF  495 

Mrs.  Allmers.  And  happiness  will  not  grow  in  the 
void.  Neither  you  nor  I  are  capable  of  bearing  this, 
Alfred.  We  must  try  to  think  of  something  that  will 
bring  forgetfulness. 

Allmers.     Oh,  what  could  that  be? 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Could  we  not  see  what  travelling 
would  do — far  away  from  here? 

Allmers.  From  home?  When  you  know  you  are 
never  really  well  anywhere  but  here. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Well,  then,  let  us  have  crowds  of 
people  about  us!  Keep  open  house!  Try  something  of 
that  sort  that  might  deaden  and  dull  our  thoughts 

Allmers.  But  such  a  life  would  be  impossible  for 
me — you  know  that.  I  simply  could  not  endure  it. 
No,  rather  than  that,  I  would  try  to  take  up  my  work 
again. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Your  work — the  work  that  has  been 
like  a  wall  between  us  ? 

Allmers.     It  has  not,  Rita.     You  are  wrong  there. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  No,  I  am  not!  But  I  will  not  con- 
sent to  share  you.  I  want  you  utterly  and  entirely  as 
you  used  to  be.  You  must  give  me  your  love  again, 
unaltered — I  will  have  it,  I  tell  you. 

Allmers.  That  love  was  an  intoxication,  and  it  is 
dead  [quenched]. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     And  you  can  say  that ! 

Allmers.  It  is  dead.  But  in  what  I  now  feel  for  you 
there  is  a  resurrection 

Mrs.  Allmers.  I  don't  care  a  bit  about  any  resur- 
rection  

Allmers.     Rita ! 

Mrs.  Allmers.  I  am  a  warm-blooded  being.  I  have 
not  fishes'  blood  in  my  veins. — And  now  to  be  imprisoned 
for  life!     Imprisoned  in  grief  and  bereavement. 


496  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Allmers  (looking  thoughtfully  at  her).  Ah,  can  this 
be  properly  called  grief  and  bereavement — this  that  we 
feel  ? 

Mrs.  Allmers.     What  else? 

Allmers.     Despair. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     Despair! 

Allmers.  Yes — despair.  I  believe  that  is  the  right 
name  for  it. 

Mrs.  Allmers  (looking  at  him  xcith  anxious  inquiry). 
Why  should  we ! 

A.LLMERS.     Have  you  no  inkling  of  the  reason  ? 

Mrs.  Allmers.     No.     Yes.     No.     Tell  me! 

Allmers.     You  say  it  first. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     No,  you  must 

Allmers.  Little  Eyolf  'was  really  rather  in  our 
aray 

Mrs.  Allmers.     Oh,  Alfred — how  can  you ! 

Allmers.  You  were  never  a  real  mother  to  him. 
And  I  was  never  entirely  a  father. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     What  else  then  ? 

Allmers.     It  sounds  so  paltry  when  I  say  it. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     I  don't  understand  you,  Alfred. 

Allmers.  But  it  is  not  paltry.  I  don't  think  it  can 
be  called  so. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     No,  no — but  what  in  the  world -? 

Allmers.     You  were  rich  and  I  was  poor,  Rita. 

Mrs.  Allmers  (takes  a  step  toivards  him).  I  don't 
believe  that! 

Allmers.     So  it  came  about,  nevertheless. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     Paltry,  then! 

Allmers.  I  had  a  sister  to  provide  for.  Remember 
that. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     Then  it  was  for  her  sake ! 

Allmers.     We  were  alone  in  the  world.     She  and  I. 


LITTLE   EYOLF  497 

I  worked  for  her,  so  long  as  I  was  able.     Till  I  was 
ready  to  drop 

Mrs.  Allmers.  And  you  can  stand  here  and  avow 
all  this  afterwards ! 

Allmers.  It  seemed  to  me  I  ought  to  free  you  of  the 
anguish  of  self-reproach.  Now  I  think  you  know  the 
reason  of  your  never  being  able  really  to  love  Eyolf. 

Mrs.  Allmers.     Oh,  but  I  have  loved  him. 

Allmers.  You  always  looked  upon  him  as  though  an 
insoluble  riddle  lay  behind. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  You  have  interpreted  it  wrongly.  I 
was  always  trembling  at  the  prospect  of  his  taking  you 
away  from  me.  (With  a  wild  outburst.)  And  now  you 
tell  me  yourself  that  I  have  never  possessed  you. 

Allmers.  You  have!  I  found  you  and  won  you  so 
entirely  when  Eyolf  was  born. 

Mrs.  Allmers  (scornfully).  Yes,  I  daresay.  For  he 
belonged  to  the  family,  of  course.  The  child — and  the 
sister!  They  are  something  apart. — Oh,  how  I  hate — 
how  I  hate  her! 

(Andrea  and  Borgheim  come  forward  along  the 
path  by  the  shore.) 

Allmers.     Well,  here  we  are  still,  Andrea. 

Andrea.  And  you  have  been  talking  things  over. 
We  will  not  disturb  you. 

Mrs.  Allmers.  No,  let  us  all  walk  together.  We 
must  have  company  about  us  in  future.  Alfred  and  I 
cannot  get  on  alone. 

Allmers.  Yes,  go  on,  you  two.  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you,  Andrea! 

Mrs.  Allmers.  Oh!  Very  well,  will  you  come,  Mr. 
Borgheim  ? 

(Mrs.  Allmers  and  Borgheim  go  up  through  tJie 
wood  on  the  right.) 


498  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Andrea.     You  have  something  to  say  to  me,  Alfred  ? 

Allmers.     Yes,  I  want  to  ask  you  something. 

Axdrea.     Well  ? 

Allmers.  Tell  me,  is  there  anything  between  you 
and  Borgheim? 

Axdrea.     Oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  answer  you. 

Allmers.     What?     You  don't  know 

Axdrea.     I  have  no  right  to  answer. 

Allmers.     We  two  must  remain  together. 

Axdrea.     But  we  are  together. 

Allmers.  Not  here.  I  do  not  feel  that  I  am  at  home 
here  any  longer. 

Axdrea.     Alfred! 

Allmers.     Rita  and  I  cannot  share  the  same  love. 

Andrea.     Oh,  don't  say  that! 

Allmers.  Yes,  yes,  I  see  it  now.  And  that  is  why  I 
come  to  you. 

Axdrea.     Oh,  but  I  cannot  help  you  in  this. 

Allmers.  Yes,  you  can.  You  and  no  one  else.  It  i? 
a  sister  I  need 

Axdrea  (almost  in  a  whisper).     A  sister! 

Allmers.  A  sister's  love.  Something  pure!  Some- 
thing holy.     I  feel  I  shall  grow  wicked  here. 

Axdrea.     Alfred !     Alfred ! 

Allmers.  Since  you  were  a  little  child  we  have  kept 
together.  We  two  alone.  In  those  days  you  needed  me. 
And  I  did  what  I  could  for  you. 

Axdrea.     All  that  I  am  I  owe  to  you. 

Allmers.  Not  so  much  to  me.  But  to  our  beautiful, 
holy  companionship. 

Axdrea.  Every  fibre  of  my  mind  has  received  it? 
stamp  from  you.     By  you.     Through  you. 

Allmers.  No,  no.  This  has  come  about  through  th? 
calm,  inscrutable  mystery. 


LITTLE   EYOLF  499 

Andrea.     What,  Alfred? 

Allmers.  The  mystery  of  the  love  of  brother  and 
sister.  The  inexplicable  attraction  of  sister  to  brother 
and  brother  to  sister. 

Andrea.     Have  you  felt  that? 

Allmers.  And  you  too.  You  too,  Andrea.  I  am 
certain  of  that. 

Andrea.     And  now  ?     What  do  you  wish  now  ? 

Allmers.  I  wish  that  you  and  I  should  return  to 
each  other. 

Andrea  (trembling).     You  and  I! 

Allmers.  In  the  past  you  needed  me.  Now  I  need 
you.  Do  not  let  any  one  come  between  us.  Promise 
me  to  continue  being  a  sister  to  me. 

Andrea.     I  cannot,  Alfred. 

Allmers.     You  cannot! 

Andrea.  No,  not  now.  Not  as  you  now  are.  I  can 
no  longer  be  like  a  sister  to  you. 

Allmers.     And  why  can  you  not? 

Andrea.     Because  I  am  not. 

Allmers.     What  does  that  mean! 

Andrea.  That  I  have  no  right  to  bear  the  name  of 
Allmers. 

Allmers.     Andrea! 

Andrea.  I  have  known  it  a  long  time.  Now  you 
know  it  too.     And  now  we  must  part. 

Allmers.     No    right    to    bear — !     Tell    me — !     Ex- 


plain  ! 

Andrea.     Not  a  word  more!     That  is  how  it  is. 

Allmers    (sadly).     Oh,   how   unspeakably   poor  this 
makes  me. 

Andrea.     You  might  be  so  rich — so  rich,  Alfred. 

Allmers.     I!     I  richi 


500  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Andrea.  Yes,  dear.  For  you  have  Rita,  and  you 
have  the  treasures  of  both  sorrow  and  loss.  (She  goes 
up  the  wood-path  to  the  right.) 

Allmers  (to  himself).  No  sister,  then. — And  little 
Eyolf  is  at  the  mercy  of  the  currents  of  the  fiord. 

(He  goes  slowly  up  tJie  path.) 


THIRD   ACT 


j 


C 

An  elevation  in  Allmers's  garden.  At  the  back,  a  sheer  « 
cliff,  with  a  railing  along  its  edge.  An  extensive  view 
over  the  fiord.  A  flag  at  half-mast,  by  the  railing. 
A  table,  bench  and  garden  chairs  on  the  elevation. 
On  the  right,  a  summer-house.  It  is  a  late  summer 
evening. 

(Miss  Asta  Allmers  is  sitting  on  a  bench  on  the  left,  and 
appears  to  be  waiting  for  some  one.  Her  hands  in 
her  lap.  After  a  while  Engineer  Borgheim  comes 
up  the  slope  at  the  back.) 

Borgheim.     So  I  have  found  you  at  last! 
Asta.     I  have  been  sitting  here  waiting — 
Borgheim.     Not  for  me,  have  you  ? 
Asta.     Yes.     I  have  been  waiting  for  you. 
Borgheim  (coming  nearer) .     I  may  come,  then  ? 
Asta.     Yes,  if  you  like. 
Borgheim.     And  talk  to  you — once  more  ? 
Asta.     Yes.     Or  first — let  me  say  something  to  you. 
Borgheim  (standing  before  her).     Well? 
Asta.     Are  you  going  this  eveinng  ? 
Borgheim.     I  am  going  to-night.     By  the  steamer.     I 
must. 


LITTLE   EYOLF  501 

Asta.  Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  you  must.  But  you 
must  understand  me,  Borgheim. 

Borgheim.     That  is  what  I  want  so  much  to  do. 

Asta.  Oh,  if  one  could  divide  one's  self!  Be  in  two 
places  at  the  same  time. 

Borgheim  (with  a  subdued  outburst).  If  you  could — 
what  would  you  do? 

Asta.     I  should  go  with  you 

Borgheim.     You  would ! 

Asta.     With  you.     By  the  steamer  to-night. 

Borgheim.     You  would  do  that!     Then  after  all ! 

Asta.  But  I  cannot  divide  myself!  I  cannot  let  my 
brother  go. 

Borgheim.  No,  you  have  already  told  me  that  twice, 
Asta. 

Asta.  And  least  of  all  now,  when  he  has  lost  lit- 
tle Eyolf.  For  think  of  what  he  has  been  to  me  all  my 
life 

Borgheim.  Yes,  of  course  I  understand  that,  Asta. 
You  consider  it  your  duty 

Asta.  Oh  no,  it  is  not  for  that.  Not  because  it  is 
my  duty 

Borgheim.     But ? 

Asta.  But  because  I  love  him,  as — well,  as  I  believe 
only  a  sister  can  love  a  brother. 

Borgheim.  And  you  think  that  is  the  deepest  kind  of 
love? 

Asta.  Yes,  I  am  almost  sure  it  is.  Because  it  is  the 
purest — the  most  sacred. 

Borgheim.     Then   what  have  you   to   say   about 
mother's  love  for  her  child  ? 

Asta.     I  have  never  known  much  of  that. 

Borgheim.     What  of  a  father's  then  ? 

Asta.     That  I  know  nothing  about.     Do  you? 


502  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Borgheim.  Yes,  both  a  mother's  and  a  father's.  And 
I  believe  that  is  what  has  made  me  so  light-hearted  and 
happy.     But  then ? 

Asta.     Then ? 

Borgheim.     Then  I  must  make  my  roads  alone. 

Asta.     Oh,  if  I  could  be  with  you.     Help  you 

Borgheim.     Would  you,  if  you  could  ? 

Asta.     Yes,  that  I  would. 

Borgheim.     But  you  cannot. 

Asta.  Would  you  be  content  to  have  only  half  of  me, 
Borgheim  ? 

Borghe.  ".  No,  you  must  be  utterly  and  entirely 
mine. 

Asta.     Then  I  cannot. 

(Alfred  Allmers, comes  up  from  below.) 

Allmers  (stops  and  looks  at  them).  Aha,  are  you 
both  here,  you  two! 

Borgheim.  You  know  that  7  am  going  to  start  to- 
night. 

Allmers.     Well,  what  then ?     Are  you  going  alone? 

Borgheim.  Yes,  I  am.  And  I  shall  have  to  remain 
alone,  too — hereafter. 

Allmers.  Alone.  There  is  something  terrible  in 
being  alone. 

Asta.     Oh,  but,  Alfred,  you  are  not! 

Allmers.  Am  I  not!  I,  who  no  longer  have  a  child. 
—Nor  a  sister  either. 

Asta  (anxiously).     Alfred,  Alfred,  you  must  not 

Borgheim;  How  can  you  say  so?  Have  you  not 
heard — your  sister  is  not  going  away  with  me. 

Allmers  It  is  all  the  same.  Oh,  Asta,  I  have  you 
no  longer.     Not  as  I  had  before. 

Borgheim  (looking  at  them  in  astonishment).  But 
I  don't  understand 


LITTLE  EYOLF  50* 

Asta.  Yes,  you  have  Alfred.  Believe  me — I  shall 
always  be  the  same  to  you  as  I  have  been. 

Allmers.     But  I  shall  not! 

Asta  (shrinking  back).     Ah ! 

Allmers.  Never  bind  yourself,  Borgheim!  There 
may  come  a  time  when  you  will  regret  it.  But  then  it 
will  be  too  late. 

Borgheim.  Never  in  this  world  could  I  regret  any- 
thing here. 

Allmers.  Oh,  it  is  incredible  what  changes  a  human 
being  can  undergo. 

Asta.  Could  not  two  people  change  together  ?  Then 
they  would  none  the  less  be  one. 

Allmers.  Never  rely  upon  that,  Asta.  That  would 
be  lifelong  happiness. 

(Mrs.  Rita  Allmers  comes  up  the  hill.) 

Rita.     Oh,  are  you  up  here  too,  Alfred  ? 

(She  is  going  again.) 

Allmers.     No,  stay,  Rita.     What  did  you  want? 

Rita.  Only  to  walk  and  walk.  I  have  no  rest  any- 
where. 

Allmers.     Nor  I  either. 

Rita.     And  then,  we  cannot  even  walk  together. 

Asta.     Oh,  but  cannot  you  ?     Try  to. 

Rita.  That  seems  to  be  so  utterly  impossible  now. 
We  must  each  take  our  own  way  in  future. 

Allmers.     I  cannot  bear  the  loneliness 

Rita.  I  see  that.  I  know  it.  Feel  it.  Asta,  you 
must  never  leave  him. 

Asta.     I! 

Borgheim.     Never! 

Rita.     No,  he  must  have  some  one  to  lean  upon. 

Asta.     Oh,  but  you,  Rita!  x 

Rita.     Not  now.     Something  stands  between  us. 


504  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Allmers.     It  must  be  got  rid  of — if  we  are  to  live. 

Rita.  It  will  never  be  got  rid  of.  You  thrive  in  the 
shade.     And  I  must  have  sunshine.     Stay  with  us,  Asta. 

Allmers.     Do  you  wish  it! 

Rita.  Yes,  everything  for  your  sake.  Stay  with  him. 
And  if  I  am  a  hindrance,  I  will  give  way. 

Allmers.     You  shall  never  give  way. 

Rita.  I  have  given  way  once  before.  Made  way  for 
my  own  child.     Must  not  that  be  right? 

Allmers.     Oh,  but — Rita! 

Rita.  You  shall  be  our  child,  Asta.  We  will  take 
you  in  the  place  of  Eyolf.  For  we  must  have  a  child  to 
draw  us  together. 

Asta  (looking  at  him) .     What  do  you  say,  Alfred  ? 

Allmers  (doubtfully).     I' ? 

Rita.  You  must  !  You  must  !  What  you  need  is  a 
tranquil,  warm,  passionless  feeling.     A  child  or  a  sister. 

Allmers  (with  a  glance  at  Asta).     Ah,  a  sister 

Asta.     Do  you  wish  me  to  remain  here,  Alfred? 

Allmers.     No,  you  must  go. 

Rita.     You  cannot! 

Asta.     I  will  and  must  go  away.     This  very  evening. 

Rita.     Where  are  you  going? 

Asta.     At  first  only  in  to  town.     But  afterwards 

Borgheim.     Afterwards ? 

Asta.  Far,  far  from  here.  (Looks  at  Borgheim  and 
fives  him  her  hand.)     I  am  going  with  you. 

Borgheim  (in  radiant  joy).     Will  you,  after  all! 

Asta.  To-morrow  you  shall  hear  everything.  And 
then  you  must  make  your  choice. 

Borgheim.  Oh,  I  care  for  nothing  else  if  I  have  you, 
Asta! 

Rita.     Ah!     That  is  how  it  is ! 


LITTLE   EYOLF  505 

Asta.  Good-bye,  Rita.  (Throwing  her  arms  round 
her  neck.)  And  thanks  for  all  your  goodness.  (Offering 
her  hand.)     Good-bye,  Alfred. 

Allmers  (opens  his  arms  to  her).     Asta 

Asta  (shrinking  back  timidly).  Good-bye — good-bye! 
(To  Borgheim.)     Come,  come.     We  must  hurry. 

(Borgheim  silently  presses  Allmers's  and  Rita's 
hands,  and  follows  Asta  down  from  the  hill.) 

Allmers  (standing  at  the  railing  and  looking  over  the 
ford).  There  comes  the  steamer.  Soon  they  will  be 
gone. 

Rita.     And  we  two  alone. 

Allmers.     It  must  be  so. 

Rita.     Can  we  bear  it? 

Allmers.     We  must. 

Rita.     Yes,  for  Asta's  sake. 

Allmers  (looking  at  her).  For  Asta's — ?  What  do 
you  mean? 

Rita.  She  could  not  stay  here.  She,  too,  wished  to 
be  everything  to  you.     As  I  did. 

Allmers.  For  her  own  sake  there  was  no  need  for  her 
to  go.     But 

Rita.     But ? 

Allmers.     For  mine. 

Rita.  Alfred!  You  could  think — desire — something 
criminal!     Never! 

Allmers  (shaking  his  head).  Oh  no,  nothing  crimi- 
nal.    But  there  is  a  secret  in  the  family 

Rita.     In  your  family  ? 

Allmers.     Yes.     Asta  and  I  are  free  in  every  way. 

Rita.     And  you  have  concealed  this  from  me! 

Allmers.     I  only  learnt  it  to-day. 

Rita.     From  her? 

Allmers.     Yes. 


506  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rita.     And  then  she  goes  away. 
Allmers.     Yes,  then  she  goes  away. 

Rita.     And  you  did  not  ask  her  to  remain ? 

Allmers.     It  was  better  for  us  all  that  Asta  should 

Rita.  How  could  you  do  it,  Alfred  ?  I  should  never 
have  been  able  to  do  such  a  thing.  Oh,  but  it  is,  as  I  was 
saying — the  fishes'  blood — .  No,  no — I  don't  mean  it. 
It  is  what  is  great  and  pure  in  you  that  has  gained  the 
victory ! 

Allmers.     Oh,  it  is  a  long  way  yet  to  the  victory. 

Rita.     Then  let  us  help  each  other. 

Allmers.     To  find  happiness  again? 

Rita.  Not  the  happiness  we  have  lost.  We  shaft 
never  find  that  again.     Buf. 

Allmers.     But ? 

Rita.  Oh,  I  don't  know,  Alfred.  But  there  must 
be  something  to  put  in  its  place. 

Allmers.  Something  that  would  counterbalance  the 
loss  of  happiness,  do  you  mean  ? 

Rita.  Nothing  that  would  equal  happiness.  But 
something  that  might  make  life  livable. 

Allmers.  Then  you  will  live  your  life  by  main  force  ? 
At  any  price? 

Rita.  Yes,  Alfred — I  will.  In  spite  of  all !  In  spite 
of  all. 

Allmers  {after  a  short  silence).  Rita — I  wrote  a  few 
little  verses  this  afternoon. 

Rita.     Could  you  do  that? 

Allmers.  Yes,  to-day  I  could.  Would  you  like  to 
hear  them? 

Rita.  Yes,  I  should  like  to.  Is  it  something  about 
me? 


LITTLE  EYOLF  507 

Allmers.     About  you  as  well.     (Seats  himself  on  the 

bench.)     Come  and  sit  down,  and  I  will  read  them  to  you. 

(She  seats  herself  on  a  chair  by  the  table,  opposite  to 

him.     He  takes  a  piece  of  paper  out  of  his  breast 

pocket.) 

Allmers  (reads). 

They  dwelt,  these  two,  in  so  cosy  a  house 
In  autumn  and  winter  weather. 
Then  came  the  fire — and  the  house  was  gone. 
They  must  search  the  ashes  together. 

For  down  in  the  ashes  a  jewel  lies  hid, 
Whose  brightness  the  flames  could  not  smother, 
And  search  they  but  faithfully,  he  and  she, 
'Twill  be  found  by  one  or  the  other. 

But  e'en  though  they  find  it,  the  gem  they  lost, 
The  enduring  jewel  they  cherished — • 
She  ne'er  will  recover  her  vanished  peace — 
Nor  he  the  joy  that  has  perished. 
(He  looks  questioningly  at  Rita.)     Did  you  understand 
that,  Rita? 

Rita  (rises).  Yes.  And  I  understood,  too,  that  you 
did  not  write  those  verses  about  me. 

Allmers.     About  whom  else ? 

Rita.     You  wrote  them  about  yourself  and  Asta. 

Allmers.     About  little  Eyolf  in  the  first  place 

Rita.  Oh,  not  at  all  about  the  little  Eyolf  who  lies 
out  there,  deep,  deep  down. 

Allmers.     Rita,  Rita,  how  can  you 

Rita.  You  wrote  them  about  the  other  one.  About 
her  whom  you  used  to  call  little  Eyolf  when  she  was  a 
child. 


508  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Allmers.  Both  for  the  big  one  and  the  little  one. 
And  for  you  too,  Rita.  I  had  to  give  expression  to 
something  that  I  can  no  longer  bear  in  silence. 

Rita.     Would  it  help  you  if  you  were  free  of  me? 

Allmers.     No. 

Rita.  And  we  cannot  live  together  as  man  and  wife 
either. 

Allmers.     No. 

Rita.  For  little  Eyolf  might  see  it,  perhaps.  Who 
knows  ?  And  he  must  not  see  us  living  in  happiness 
without  him. 

Allmers.  Nor  could  we  do  so,  Rita.  Even  if  we 
wished. 

Rita.  No,  we  could  not.  (Stops.)  But  if  we  could 
call  him  to  life  again,  Afredf 

Allmers.     What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

Rita.     If  we  could  make  him  live  within  us,  I  mean. 

Allmers.  Oh,  he  does  live  within  us.  In  sorrow 
and  heartache — and  in  remorse  too. 

Rita.  Oh,  sorrow  and  heartache  and  remorse — that 
is  not  life  at  all.  They  are  not  for  Eyolf's  childish  soul. 
We  must  think  of  something  that  may  fill  him  with  quiet 

Allmers  (shaking  his  head  tvith  a  sad  smile).  As  if 
he  could  see  what  we  are  about  here! 

Rita.  Perhaps  he  can  see,  though — in  his  own  way. 
We  must  live  and  act  as  though  he  were  behind  us. 
Looking  at  us.  Seeing  everything  and  understanding 
everything.     All  our  actions  and  all  our  thoughts. 

Allmers  (wringing  his  hands).  Oh,  if  he  could  ha^e 
lived  with  us.  Lived  his  own  life.  Now  it  is  as  though 
he  had  never  existed.  What  was  he  doing  here  in  the 
world,  if  he  was  not  to 

Rita.     He  did  not  live  in  vain,  nevertheless. 


LITTLE   EYOLF  509 

Allmers.  Oh,  phrases,  Rita.  (Pointing  down  over 
the  railing.)  But  listen  to  them  down  below.  All  the 
shrieking,  yelling  children.  All  those  who  let  him  go 
to  destruction.     And  who  did  not  help  him. 

Rita.  They  will  all  go  to  destruction  too,  Alfred. 
Go  to  destruction  in  their  unhappy  homes. 

Allmers.     Yes,  I  daresay  you  are  right. 

Rita.  And  we  stand  up  here  on  our  height  and  look 
on.     And  do  not  help  them. 

Allmers.     We ? 

Rita.  We  could  help  them,  if  we  wished.  But  we 
do  not. 

Allmers  (looking  before  him).  That  would  be  little 
Eyolf's  revenge.     To  repay  death  with  life. 

Rita.     Then  he  would  not  have  lived  in  vain. 

Allmers.     Nor  died  in  vain  either. 

Rita.  If  you  will — we  will  do  it,  Alfred.  Stand  by 
one  another  like  two  faithful  friends. 

Allmers.  Little  Eyolf  shall  continue  to  live  through 
us. 

(He  goes  to  the  flagstaff  and  hoists  the  flag  to  the  top.) 

Rita.  No  more  sign  of  death.  That  is  a  relief,  Al- 
fred.    Oh,  what  a  relief! 

Allmers.     Thanks  for  rousing  me  to  this. 

Rita.     Thank  little  Eyolf. 

Allmers.     Yes,  him  first. — In  deeds. 

Rita.  If  only  one  does  not  demand  happiness — at 
any  price — I  do  not  see  why  one  should  not  be  able  to 
live  one's  life. 

Allmers.  Eyolf's  memory  will  teach  us  how  to  live 
our  lives. 

Rita.  Yes,  yes,  Alfred.  And  he  himself  will  live  in 
ifchem. 


510  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Rita.  Yes,  he  is  living  with  us.  We  will  never  more 
look  for  him  down  in  the  deep,  dark,  turbid  current. 

Allmers.  He  is  not  down  there.  He  is  up  here  on 
earth  with  us,  unseen.  Taking  part  in  our  daily  life. 
Helping  us  to  protect  our  uncertain,  changeable  human 
destinies. 

Rita.  And  if  now  and  then  a  mysterious  Sabbath 
peace  descends  on  our  souls ? 

Allmers.     What  then,  Rita? 

Rita.  Do  you  not  think  it  might  be  a  visit  from  some 
one  who  is  gone? 

Allmers.  Who  knows  ?  We  will  look  for  those  who 
are  gone.     Perhaps  we  shall  catch  sight  of  them. 

Rita.  Little  Eyolf.  And  big  Eyolf.  Where  shall 
we  look  for  them,  Alfred? 

Allmers.     Upwards. 

Rita  (nods  in  approval).     Yes,  yes,  upwards! 

Allmers.  Upwards — towards  the  stars.  And  to- 
wards the  great  silence. 

Rita  (giving  him  her  hand).     Thanks! 


JOHN  GABRIEL  BORKMAN 


FROM  THE  FIRST  ACT 

Mrs.  Borkman.  He  thinks,  what  is  the  truth;  that 
you  are  ashamed  of  us — that  you  despise  us.  And  do 
you  pretend  that  you  don't?  Were  you  not  once  plan- 
ning to  adopt  him  ?  To  make  him  change  his  name  ? 
Call  himself  Rentheim.     Erhard  Rentheim. 

Miss  Rentheim.  That  was  at  the  height  of  the  scan- 
dal— when  the  case  was  before  the  courts. 

Mrs.  Borkman.  Yes,  then  you  wished  me  to  lose 
my  boy  too.  As  I  lost  everything — everything  else.  I 
was  only  to  be  left  with  the  dishonoured  name.  I  alone. 
It  was  good  enough  for  me  to  be  called  Borkman. 

Miss  Rentheim.     I  have  no  such  designs  now. 

Mrs.  Borkman.  And  it  would  not  matter  if  you  had. 
For  in  that  case  what  would  become  of  his  mission  ?  No, 
thank  you.  Erhard  no  longer  needs  you.  And  there- 
fore he  is  as  good  as  dead  to  you — and  you  to  him. 

Miss  Rentheim  (with  an  outburst) .  Can  you  say  that, 
Gunhild! 

Mrs.  Borkman.  He  has  promised  me  that.  He  has 
sworn  it  to  me.     Now  you  know  it. 

Miss  Rentheim  (firmly,  with  resolution).  We  shall 
see.     For  now  I  shall  remain  out  here. 


SECOND  ACT 


The  great  gallery  on  the  first  floor  of  the  Borkman  house. 
The  walls  are  covered  with  faded  tapestries,  repre- 
senting hunting-scenes,   gods,  shepherds  and  shep- 
herdesses, all  in  faded  colours.     A  folding-door  to  the 
513 


514  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

lefty  and  further  forward  a  piano.  In  the  left-hand 
corner,  at  the  back,  a  door,  cut  in  the  tapestry,  and 
covered  with  tapestry,  without  any  frame.  Against 
the  middle  of  the  right  xvall,  a  desk,  with  books  and 
papers.  Further  forward  on  the  same  side,  a  sofa 
with  a  table  and  chairs  in  front  of  it.  The  furniture 
is  all  of  a  stiff  Empire  style.  A  lighted  chandelier 
hangs  from  the  ceiling. 

(Jens  Borkman  stands  by  the  piano,  with  a  music-stand 
in  front  of  him,  playing  the  violin.  Frida  Foldal 
sits  at  the  instrument,  accompanying  him.) 

(Borkman  is  a  slender  man  of  middle  height,  well  on  in 
the  sixties.  His  appearance  is  distinguished,  his 
profile  finely  cut;  he  has  white  hair  and  is  clean- 
shaven. He  is  in  evening  dress,  with  a  black  coat 
and  a  white  necktie.  Frida  Foldal  is  a  girl  of  sev- 
enteen, pretty,  pale,  with  a  somewhat  weary  and  over' 
strained  expression.  She  is  cheaply  dressed  in  dark 
clothes.) 

(They  are  playing  the  last  bars  of  a  piece  of  Beetho- 
ven.) 
Borkman  (lowers  the  violin  and  remains  standing  at 

the  music-stand.)     It  went  passably  well  this  evening. 

You  are  getting  on,  Miss  Foldal. 

Frida.     Oh,  I  have  had  so  little  practice  as  yet,  un- 
fortunately.    I  am  so  badly  wanting  in  proficiency. 
Borkman.     You  have  the  fire  of  music  in  you.     And 

to  have  fire  in  one's  soul — that  is  the  decisive  thing. 

The  decisive  thing  in  every  relation  of  life.     {Turning 

over  the  pages  of  the  music  book.)     Let  me  see — .     What 

shall  we  take  next 

Frida  (looks  at  her  watch).     I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr. 

Borkman — but  I  am  afraid  I  must  go. 

Borkman.     Are  you  going  already? 


JOHN   GABRIEL  BORKMAN  515 

Frida  (rises) .  I  really  must.  I  have  an  engagement 
this  evening. 

Borkman.     Are  you  to  play  for  dancing? 

Frida.     Yes,  there  is  to  be  a  dance  after  supper. 

Borkman  (places  his  violin  and  bow  on  the  piano). 
Do  you  like  playing  dance  music — in  private  circles,  I 
mean? 

FROM  THE  THIRD  ACT 

Borkman.  But  it  does  not  know  why  I  did  it;  why  I 
had  to  do  it.     And  that  is  what  I  want  to  explain. 

Mrs.  Borkman.     Reasons  acquit  no  one. 

Borkman.     They  may  acquit  one  in  one's  own  eyes. 

Mrs.  Borkman.  Oh,  let  all  that  alone.  I  have 
thought  over  that  business  enough  and  to  spare. 

Borkman.  I  too.  During  those  six  years  in  my  cell 
I  had  time  to  think  it  over.  And  during  the  eight  years 
up  there  in  the  gallery  I  have  had  still  more  ample  time. 
I  have  gone  over  the  whole  case  again — by  myself.  I 
have  turned  every  one  of  my  actions  upside  down  and 
inside  out.  Backwards  and  forwards.  And  the  final 
judgment  I  have  come  to  is  this:  the  one  person  I  have 
sinned  against  is — myself. 

Mrs.  Borkman.  And  what  about  me  ?  What  about 
your  son  ? 

Borkman.  You  and  he  are  included  in  what  I  mean 
when  I  say  myself. 

Mrs.  Borkman.  And  what  about  the  hundreds  of 
others,  then — the  people  they  say  you  have  ruined? 

Borkman.  I  had  power  in  my  hands.  And  these 
others  did  not  concern  me. 

Mrs.  Borkman.  No,  no,  there  may  be  something  it. 
that. 


516  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Borkman.     If  the  others  had  had  the  power,  do  you 
think  they  would  not  have  acted  exactly  as  I  did  ? 
Mrs.  Borkman.     They  would  not — most  of  them. 


FROM  THE   FOURTH  ACT 

Ella  Rentheim.     A  long  sleep,  I  think! 

Mrs.  Borkman.     Ella!     (To  The  Maid.)     Go  for 
help.     Men  and  horses. 

(The  Maid  goes  out  to  the  right.) 

Mrs.  Borkman  (behind  the  bench).     The  night  air  has 
killed  him. 

Ella  Rentheim.     So  it  appears.     Will  you  not  look 
at  him  ? 

Mrs.  Borkman.     No,  no,  no.     He  could  not  stand 
the  fresh  air. 

Ella  Rentheim  (nods  slowly).     It  must  be  so.     The 
cold  has  killed  him. 

Mrs.  Borkman.     Oh,  Ella,  the  cold  had  killed  him 
long  ago. 

Ella  Rentheim.     Us  too. 

Mrs.  Borkman.     You  are  right. 

Ella   Rentheim.     We   are    three   dead  beings — we 
three  here. 

Mrs.  Borkman.     We  are.     And  now  I  think  we  two 
may  hold  out  our  hands  to  each  other,  Ella. 

Ella  Rentheim  (quietly).     Over  the  third.     Yes. 
(Mrs.  Borkman  behind  the  bench,  and  Ella  Ren- 
theim in  front  of  it,  take  each  other  s  hand.) 


WHEN  WE  DEAD  AWAKEN 


NOTES  AND  DRAFT 

The  first  act  passes  in  the  summer.  Fashionable  bath- 
ing establishment  on  the  sea  coast. 

Second  act  up  at  a  health  resort,  high  in  the  moun- 
tains. 

Third  act  among  glaciers  and  precipices  on  the  western 
slope. 

He  is  a  sculptor.  Elderly.  Famous.  Newly  mar- 
ried. Returning  from  honeymoon.  He  has  taken  her 
"up  into  a  high  mountain  and  shown  her  all  the  glory 
of  the  world."  And  so  he  won  her.  She  is  young,  bright 
and  joyous.  They  are  both  radiantly  happy.  Now  he 
will  begin  to  enjoy  life. 

Then  it  is  that  he  meets  "  his  first  love "  at  the  bath- 
ing establishment.  The  one  he  has  forgotten.  She  who 
has  never  forgotten.  Clad  in  white.  Accompanied  by 
her  nurse.  She  was  of  rich  family.  Left  her  home  and 
went  away  with  him,  the  young,  poor,  unknown  future 
artist.  Became  his  model.  Then  she  broke  with  him 
and  left  him.  Has  since  been  married  to  another  and 
divorced.  Then  married  again.  He  committed  suicide. 
All  this  happened  abroad. 

CHARACTERS 

The  Doctor  at  the  Baths,  an  intelligent  man,  still  young. 

The    Inspector    at    the    Baths.     Fussy.     Goes    about 
among  the  visitors,  spreading  gossip. 

The  Gossiping  Lady  from  the  capital.     Has  the  reputa- 
tion among  the  visitors  of  being  extremely  amusing. 
Malicious  from  thoughtlessness. 
519 


520  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Many  Visitors  at  the  Baths,  with  their  Children. 

A  Waiter  at  the  Bath  Hotel. 

Waitresses. 

The  Sportsman  from  the  mountains. 

Stubow.     Rambow. 

Professor  Erik  Stubow,  famous  sculptor. 

SCENARIO 

Stubow  and  Maia. 

The  former  and  the  Inspector. 

The  former  and  the  strange  lady  in  white  with  her 
nurse.     They  go  into  the  pavilion. 

The  former,  the  lady  from  the  capital  and  other  ladies. 
The  ladies  go  off  after  a  short  scene. 

The  mountain  sportsman 'arrives  with  his  servant  and 
dogs  from  the  steamer.  Servant  and  dogs  out  to  the 
right. 

Stubow,  Maia,  the  Sportsman  and  the  Inspector. 

The  Sportsman  and  Maia  out  to  the  right. 

The  strange  lady  in  from  the  left. 

The  Inspector  goes  into  the  hotel. 

The  lady  and  Stubow  alone.     Dialogue. 

Maia  comes  back.     The  lady  off. 

Stubow  and  Maia  decide  to  go  to  the  mountain  health 
resort. 

In  this  country  only  the  mountains  give  an  echo,  not 
the  men  and  women. 


He  was  a  diplomatist,  a  distinguished  Russian  [Bul- 
garian] diplomatist.  Him  I  managed  to  drive  out  of  his 
mind,  mad,  incurably  mad.  It  was  great  sport  while  it 
was  in  the  doing.  I  could  have  laughed  within  me.  If 
I  had  anything  within  me. 


WHEN   WE   DEAD   AWAKEN  521 

So  that  was  Heir  von  Satow. 

No,  my  second  husband  was  called  Satow.  He  was 
a  Russian. 

And  where  is  he 

I  have  killed  him. 

Killed! 

Killed  him  with  a  fine  sharp  dagger  which  I  had  with 
me  in  bed 

[Don't  believe  you 

Indeed  you  may  believe  it] 

Have  you  never  had  children. 

Yes,  many  children 

And  where  are  they  now 

I  killed  them. 

Now  you  are  telling  lies,  Irene.     [All  this.] 

Killed  them  [murdered  them  pitilessly]  as  soon  as  they 
came  into  the  world.  [Long,  long  before.]  One  after 
the  other. 

Religious  brooding? 
No,  I  have  never- 


Some  of  the  strings  of  your  nature  have  broken. 
Does  not  that  always  happen  when  a  human  being 
dies? 

First  became  famous  through  Irene — Now  be  will  I.'  e 
and  enjoy  his  youth  over  again  with  another.  Then  he 
alters  the  statue  into  a  group.  Irene  becomes  a  second- 
ary figure  in  the  work  that  made  him  famous 

First  a  single  statue;  then  a  group.     Then  she  left  him. 

Our  life  was  not  that  of  two  human  beings 

What  was  it  then 

Only  that  of  artist  and  model. 


522  FROM   IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 


2nd  ACT. 

Children  playing  on  the  upland. 

Professor  Rubek  is  sitting  on  the  bench  and  looking 
at  their  play. 

Maia  comes  to  look  for  him.     Scene  between  them. 

Irene  with  a  band  of  children  advances  over  the  up- 
land. 

The  bear  hunter  comes  and  fetches  Maia. 

Irene  and  Rubek.     Great  scene. 

Something  is  locked  up  in  me 

You  took  the  key  with  you 

When  we  dead  awaken 

What  do  we  see  then  ? 

We  see  that  we  have  never  lived. 


U.     Come  down  again  as  fast  as  you  can 
The  mist  is  upon  us 

We  will  go  up  above  the  mists. 

But  you  must  pass  through  them  first 

Oh,  how  I  shall  rejoice  and  sing,  if  I  get  down  with  a 
whole  skin 

The  hut  by  the  Lake  of  Taunitz.     There  it  lies 

Great,  white  swans  are  dipping  their  necks  in  the 
water. 


THE  RESURRECTION  DAY 

A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS 

BY 

HENRIK  IBSEN 

1899 

FROM  THE   THIRD  ACT 

Maia  (interrupting).  Was  it  not  a  strange  chance  that 
we  four  should  meet  here  on  the  wild  mountain  side  ? 

Professor  Rubek.  You  with  an  eagle-shooter,  and  I 
with — (to  Irene) — well,  what  do  I  come  with? 

Irene.     With  a  shot  eagle. 

Maia.     Shot  ? 

Irene.     Shot  in  the  wing,  Mrs.  Rubek. 

Maia.  Rubek — there  seems  to  be  something  good  and 
reconciling  in  our  meeting  here  for  the  last  time. 

Professor  Rubek.  Never  to  see  each  other  again. 
If  you  wish  the  same  as  I  do. 

Maia.     With  all  my  heart  I  do. 

Ulfheim.  Then  all  is  well.  I  would  rather  have 
carried  her  off — by  force — violently — but  let  that  be ■ 

Maia.     Then  I  will  say  good-bye  to  you,  Rubek. 

Professor  Rubek.  I  have  done  you  a  great  wrong. 
I,  too,  have  taken  you  by  force 


Maia.     Yes,  when  you  bought  me 

Professor  Rubek  (nods).     — bought  you,  in  spite  of 
all  the  ferment  of  open-air  life  in  you. 

523 


524  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Maia.  And  if  you  now  set  me  free  so  easily  [and 
cheerfully],  it  is  because  you  want  to  be  free  yourself. 

Professor  Rubek.  Yes,  I  could  not  bear  it  any 
longer. 

Maia.  If  we  had  not  been  joined  together  in  wedlock, 
as  it  is  called,  you  would  have  borne  it  longer. 

Professor  Rubek.  You  too!  You  too,  Maia.  You 
have  spent  days  and  nights  regretting  it. 

Ulfheim.  Don't  think  of  that  now.  Here  we  meet 
and  here  we  part.     Here  we  will  hold  our  feast. 

Maia.  A  feast  here  ?  Where  will  you  get  the  cham- 
pagne from,  Mr.  Ulfheim  ? 

Ulfheim.     Champagne  ?     Must  there  be  champagne  ? 

Maia.     Nothing  less  will  do! 

Ulfheim.     Then,  upon  my  soul,  you  shall  have  it! 
(He  takes  a  key  from  his  pocket,  opens  the  door  of 
the  shooting  hut  and  goes  in.) 

Maia  (looking  after  him).     What  is  he  doing  now? 

Professor  Rubek.  He  is  making  a  clatter  with 
knives  and  forks.  And  with  glasses.  He  is  preparing 
the  feast  for  us. 

(Ulfheim  comes  out,  bringing  a  tray  covered  with  a 
cloth,  with  bottles  of  wine  and  cold  meats,  and  puts 
it  down  on  the  stone  table.) 

Maia.     But  what  in  the  world ! 

Ulfheim.  You  will  have  to  take  pot  luck,  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  This  was  really  intended  only  for  two.  But 
our  guests  are  welcome.  (Ulfheim  opens  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne.) [(softly.)  Lars  is  a  good  fellow.  He  knows 
me.     Looks  after  everything.] 

Maia  (in  a  half  whisper) .     Oh,  you  base  criminal! 

Ulfheim.  No  reproaching  your  comrade.  (Pouring 
out  the  wine.)     Only  intended  for  two,  as  I  said.     We 


THE   RESURRECTION  DAY  525 

men  must  make  shift  with  beer  glasses.  (Hands  the 
glasses  round  and  raises  his  glass.)  Your  health,  ladies 
and  gentlemen!  (To  Maia.)  What  shall  the  toast  be, 
Madam  ? 

Maia.     Freedom  shall  be  the  toast! 

(She  empties  her  glass  at  one  draught.) 

Professor  Rubek.     Yes,  let  freedom  be  the  toast. 

(He  empties  his  glass.) 

Irene.  And  a  toast  for  those  who  have  the  courage 
to  use  it. 

(She  sips  at  her  glass  and  throws  the  rest  on  the 
ground.) 

Ulfheim.  Thanks  for  the  toast,  Madam.  I  take  it 
for  myself.  For  I  have  never  lacked  courage  to  use  my 
freedom!  (He  drinks  and  Jills  the  glasses  again.)  And 
now  a  toast  to  the  hunt  for  the  new  life!  I  have  a  castle 
to  offer  her  who  follows  me 

Maia.     No  castle!     I  won't  own  it! 

Ulfheim.  You  may  want  it  in  time.  In  a  year  or 
two  perhaps  all  the  rest  will  be  done  with. 

Maia.     Hurrah!     Then  we  shall  be  altogether  free. 

(Empties  her  glass.) 

Ulfheim.     Then  we  shall  only  have  this  hut  left. 

Maia.  We  can  set  fire  to  that.  Burn  it  down  any  day 
we  like. 

Ulfheim.     But  first  live — live  in  it! 

Maia.     Live  the  new  life,  yes! 

Ulfh.     And  now  we  take  our  leave. 

Prof.  R.     No  doubt  we  shall  meet  down  at  the  hotel. 

Ulf.  Scarcely.  Before  you  come  down,  I  shall  be 
gone. 

Prof.  R.     Are  you  going  with  him,  Maia  ? 

M.     Yes,  I  am  going  with  him. 


526  FROM  IBSEN'S   WORKSHOP 

Prof.  R.  And  we  are  going  further  over  the  moun- 
tains. 

Ulf.     Shall  we  not  warn  him  ? 

M.  {struggling  for  a  moment  ivith  herself).  No.  Let 
him  choose  his  own  way. 

,      Ulfh.  {raising  his  hat).     A  pleasant  trip  among  the 
mountains. 

{Silent  leave-takings  are  exchanged.     Ulfheim  and 
Maia  begin  to  descend  the  precipice  at  the  back.) 

Ulfh.  Take  care.  It  is  a  deadly  dangerous  way  we 
are  going. 

M.  {between  jest  and  earnest).  You  must  take  the  re- 
sponsibility for  us  both. 

{They  continue  to  climb  down  and  are  no  longer 
seen.) 

Prof.  R.  [{with  a  breath  of  relief).  Now  I  am  free!] 
So  lightly  and  cheerfully  could  she  leave  me. 

Irene.     She  is  awakened. 

Prof.  R.     Awakened? 

Irene.  From  life's  deep,  heavy  sleep.  Even  as  she 
descends  into  the  ravine,  she  is  being  carried  upwards 
towards  her  bright  native  heights — without  her  knowing 
it. 

Prof.  R.  To  me  she  is  dead.  Then  let  her  live 
[ — or  rest]. 

Irene.  Did  you  not  murder  her  a  little  every  day 
— when  you  were  living  together  ? 

Prof.  R.     I? 

Irene.  As  you  murdered  me  a  little  every  day. 
Sucked  her  blood  too — to  support  yourself 

Prof.  R.  Never!  Against  you  I  have  sinned.  But 
never  against  her.     Never  against  any  other. 

Irene.  Then  perhaps  that  very  thing  was  death  to 
her. 


THE  RESURRECTION  DAY  527 

Prof.  R.  No  one  else  in  the  world  concerns  us.  We 
can  now  be  everything  to  each  other. 

Irene.     Now! 

Prof.  R.  Yes,  now.  Come,  Irene,  before  we  go 
home  we  will'dimb  up  on  yonder  peak  and  look  far  out 
over  the  country  and  all  its  glory. 

Irene.  Driving  clouds  are  sweeping  up  the  mountain 
side. 

Prof.  R.     But  the  peak  rises  clear  of  them. 

Irene.     And  you  will  go  up  there  ? 

Prof.  R.  With  you.  I  will  live  the  resurrection  day 
and  reshape  it  in  a  new  image — in  your  image,  Irene. 

Irene.     In  mine ? 

Prof.  R.     In  yours,  as  you  now  are. 

Irene.     And  do  you  know  what  I  am  now  ? 

Prof.  R.  Be  what  you  please.  For  me,  you  are 
what  I  see  in  you. 

Irene.  I  have  stood  on  the  turn-table  [in  the  glare 
of  electric  lamps,  amid  the  blaring  of  trumpets],  naked, 
and  made  a  show  of  myself  to  hundreds  of  men — after 
you. 

Prof.  R.  It  was  I  that  drove  you  to  the  turn-table — 
blind  as  I  then  was — I,  who  placed  the  dead  clay-image 
above  the  happiness  of  life — of  love — not  a  hairsbreadth 
has  this  lowered  you  in  my  eyes. 

Irene.  Nor  in  my  own.  But  the  desire  of  life  is  dead 
in  me.  Now  I  have  arisen,  and  see  that  life  lies  dead. 
All  life  lies  on  its  bier — {The  clouds  sink  slowly  down 
like  a  damp  mist.)  See  how  the  shroud  is  closing  in  on 
us!  But  I  will  not  die  again,  Arnold! — Save  me!  Save 
me,  if  you  can  and  will! 

Prof.  R.  Up  above  the  mists  I  have  a  glimpse  of  the 
mountain  peak.     It  stands  there  glittering  in  the  sunrise 


528  FROM  IBSEN'S  WORKSHOP 


— there  it  is  we  must  go — through  the  mists  of  night  up 
into  the  light  of  morning. 

(The  mists  close  in  thicker  and  thicker  over  the  scene. 
R.  and  Irene  step  down  into  the  veil  of  mist  and 
are  graducdly  lost  to  sight.)  , 

(The  head  of  the  Sister  of  Mercy  appears,  searching, 

in  a  rift  in  the  mist.) 
(High  up  above  the  sea  of  mist  the  mountain  peak 
shines  in  the  morning  sun.) 


